
Rook oTh 



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RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 




CHARLES DICKENS AT SIX-A\D-TVVEXTY. 

{After Maclise.) 



RAMBLES WITH AN 
AMERICAN 



BY S> ■ J , ^^ £1 nAAjL^ 
CHRISTIAN TEARLE , , ' 

AUTHOR OF " HOLBORN HILL," " THE VICE-CHANCELLOR's WARD," ETC. 



WITH TWENTY-ONE ILLUSTRATIONS 




NEW YORK 

DUFFIELD & COMPANY 

1910 



•^ 



^^^ 



i 



J) 

X 



TO 



J. NOETON DICKONS 



AUTHOR'S NOTE 

Since the first of these Rambles was written 
changes have taken place as regards both places 
described and persons referred to. These, how- 
ever, are of no great importance, and I have 
thought it better not to attempt to bring the 

text up to date. 

C. T. 

January, 1910. 



CONTENTS 



CHAP. PAGE 

I. With Dickens in Hatton Gauden - - - 1 

Postscript — " The Queen must have her will" 14 

II. With Dickens to the Mabshalsea - - - 16 

III. The Bankside Visited 34 

IV. The Bankside Revisited 48 

Postscript — Shakespeare in the Water Meadows 70 
V. The Birth-House at Stratfokd-on-Avon - - 71 
VI. The Hathaway House at Shottery - - - 81 
VII. Mr. Fairfield Learns " Axl about Shake- 
speare " 95 

Postscript — ** He was Droonk, y'e knoo ! " - - 100 

VIII. Shakespeare's Church 101 

IX. With Goldsmith in Green Arbour Court - 113 

Postscript — The Bells of St. Andrew's, Holborn 127 

X. Following in Goldsmith's Footsteps - - 129 

Postscript — Poor Little Houses of Chancerie - 146 

XI. We begin to Ramble about Edinburgh - - 149 

XII. Mr. Fairfield and " Bonnie Dundee " - - 160 

XIII. Mr. Fairfield wields the Vernacular - - 174 

XIV. We see the Manuscript of "Wavbrley" - 186 
XV. Mr. Fairfield Moralises in Greyfriars 

Churchyard ...-.- 196 

XVI. We Cross Melrose Bridge an^d Climb Eildon- 204 

XVII. Melrose Abbey and Sir Walter's Grave - 215 

XVIII. We Climb Smailholm Tower . . . - 225 

XIX. We Ramble about the Rhymbh's Glen and 

find the Eildon Stone . . . - 236 

XX. By the Toll-house on the Selkirk Eoad - 246 
h ix 



X CONTENTS 

CHAP. FAfiB 

XXI. Abbotsfobd House 251 

Postscript—" Sir Walter Scott— for Scotland " 263 
XXII. We see Shakespeabe's Will, and Dawdle about 

Lincoln's Inn .-..-- 264 

Postscript — The Ghosts of Lincoln's Inn - 279 

XXIII. Mr. Fairfield Ttirns Record-Hunter, and 

Studies "Swinburne on Wills" - - 284 

Postscript — Epitome of Shakespeare's WiU - 301 

XXIV. The Bull Hotel, Rochester : I am Invited to 

Study " Edwin Dbood " - - - - 303 

XXV. We Ramble to Gadshtll 313 

XXVI. In Cobham Park we learn something about 

Charles Dickens 327 

XXVII. We visit Minor Canon Row, and Ramble to 

Cooling ------- 334 

Postscript — A Score o' Years Ago - - - 351 

XXVIII. Cobham Woods and Eastgate House - - - 352 

Postscript — The Old English Lyrists - - 366 
XXIX. We Inspect the Buff-Jerkins and Matchlocks 

IN Rochester Cathedral - - - - 367 

Envot — The Rochester Coach - - - - 375 



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 



Charles Dickens at Six-and-Twenty - - Frontispiece 

After Maclise, 

to face page 
Gray's Inn Square 2 

From Herbert's " Antiquities of the Inns of Court," 1804. 

Hatton Garden Doorways 7 

From photographs by T, W. Tyrrell. 

St. George'Sj Southwark, and The Marshalsea Gate - 32 
From Hughson's "London," 1807. 

(1) The Cottages, Collingwood Street, Blackfriars - 51 

From a photograph by T. W. Tyrrell. 

(2) The Old King's Arms, Surrey Row, Blackfriars - 51 

From a photograph by T. W. Tyrrell, 

The Original Globe Theatre, Bankside - - - - 57 

From " Londina Illnstrata". 

The Bankside in Queen Elizabeth's Reign - - - 70 
From " Londina Illustrata ". 

"Anne Hathaway's Cottage" 84 

From a photograph by T. W. Tyrrell. 

William Shakespeare - 98 

From the Fuat Folio. 

The Church, Stratford-on-Avon 112 

From a photograph by T. W. Tyrrell. 

The Fleet Ditch of the "Dunciad" - - - - 138 

From Warbiirton's " Pope," 1751. 



y 



y 



xii LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 

to facb page 
The Old West Bow, Edinburgh 170 

From a drawing by Cattermole. 

Edinburgh Castle peom the Greyeriaks - - - - 196 
From a drawing by Cattermole. 

The Library, Abbotsford ------- 253 

From a drawing by Allan. 

Lincoln's Inn Hall, Chapel, and Gateway - - - 277 
From Herbert's "Antiquities of the Inns of Court," 1804. 

EIastgatb House, Rochester ------ 306 

From a photograph by T. W. Tyrrell. 

The Priory Gate and the Back op Minor Canon Row - 336 

From a photograph by T. W. Tyrrell. 



RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

CHAPTEE I 

WITH DICKENS IN HATTON GARDEN 

My client, Mr. James C. Fairfield, of Chicago, U.S.A., 
rose to go ; but his eye fell upon Gray's Inn Hall, and 
he stood gazing at it out of my office window, as if loth 
to depart. 

He had made his appearance in Gray's Inn a few 
weeks earlier, to consult me respecting an unpaid letter 
of credit. The amount in question was considerable, 
and from the beginning I had felt sure that he was a 
person of position in his own country. The letter of 
introduction which he had brought was written by an 
officer of the American embassy, and among the docu- 
ments in the case was a note from the Secretary, which 
began, " My dear Fairfield". 

There was not much of the typical American about 
my client ; but I fancied that he showed a slight re- 
luctance to disclose his second Christian name, and it 
must be admitted, that he pronounced the word Chicago 
in a manner which defied the imitative powers of an 
Englishman. His appearance was all in his favour. His 
countenance, though remotely suggestive of the Eed 
Indian type, was refined and gracious; his more than 
fifty winters had dried him up rather than aged him, 
and his tall form was spare and willowy. 

To-day he had asked for my bill of costs, and after 

glancing at the total he had paid the amount. At the 

same time he had hinted with perfect taste and evident 

sincerity, that he feared he had been more trouble than 

1 



2 RAMBLES WITH AN AMEKICAN 

he was worth. Then he had settled himself down to 
read the items. They certainly were rather wordy ; and 
as he waded through them, I fancied from the expression 
of his face that he was still a little sorry that I had 
gone through so much to get so little. As he continued 
to read, he now and again made a pause, as if dwelling 
upon a word or phrase ; and at length, he said, more to 
himself than to me : " The EngHsh law-language is very 
suggestive; it reminds one of the Sonnets ". I knew 
that Peacock, my factotum, was an old-fashioned drafts- 
man, who loved to use words and phrases rarely met with 
nowadays except in deeds ; but I felt that though these 
might bear a certain Elizabethan smack, a client who 
could trace a connexion between old Peacock's entries 
and the Sonnets of Shakespeare was no ordinary person. 

So it was not without interest that I watched Mr. 
Fairfield gazing across the placid square upon the old 
hall of Gray's Inn. Nor was it without sympathy ; for 
the lack-lustre eye with which most of my visitors re- 
garded that prospect had often made me wonder a little. 

" Your Hall is more than three hundred years old ; 
isn't it ? " he asked at length. 

" It's more than that since it was ' re-edified ' — what- 
ever that may mean." 

"Folks say that Shakespeare once acted in it," he 
continued. 

" Yes ! They say he helped to play the ' Comedy of 
Errors ' there, and certainly Queen Elizabeth has been 
there, to say nothing of Bacon, and scores and scores of 
other eminent persons. And it has been used as a 
Court of Justice. An old clerk of mine remembered 
Lord Chancellor Eldon sitting in that hall." 

Mr. James C. Fairfield drew a long breath, and there 
was an unmistakably wistful look in his eyes as he con- 
tinued to gaze across the square. 

" The lines, sir, have fallen to you in pleasant places," 
he said, with a very agreeable smile; "I have been 
wondering why Charles Dickens didn't like Gray's Inn. 
He called it one of the most depressing institutions in 
brick and mortar known to the children of men." 




2: S 



DICKENS IN HATTON GARDEN 3 

" He had reason," I answered; "he remembered it 
as a place of servitude. But it was a pity he kept on 
hating it all his life." 

I spoke with some feeling, for the Inn holds a warm 
corner in my heart, and the unkind things said about 
it in the " Uncommercial Traveller " are hard to bear. 

It was with a manifest accession of interest that Mr. 
Fairfield eyed me after this, and it was with a shyness 
of manner quite new in him that he asked if I had ever 
seen the Hatton Garden police-court. "I know it has 
been shut up for many years," he explained, "but I 
want to find it." 

I had heard of the police-court in question, but I had 
no notion of its whereabouts. 

" The truth is," said my client, with a sudden effort, 
as if he had determined to make a clean breast of things, 
" some of us in Chicago think a deal of Dickens. I'm 
badly bitten myself, and I've spent a lot of time in your 
city here, following up his tracks. I've covered most 
of the ground ; but I've not located the police-office 
where Mr. Fang bullied Oliver Twist, and what's more 
I don't know anybody who has. No doubt all the de- 
tail in the book was photographically correct — trust 
Charles Dickens for that ! — and I want to find the place 
if it's to be found. But I daresay your clientele doesn't 
bring you near the police-courts," he added with a 
slight bow. 

" It must be more than sixty years since * Oliver Twist ' 
was published," said I. 

" Dickens wrote it in 1837. He actually had both 
that and ' Pickwick ' in hand at the same time, and 
wasn't even a week in advance of the printer with either. 
Think of that, sir ! It's plain from Forster's * Life ' 
that the court was in full blast then ; for he tells us 
Dickens was smuggled into the place, so that he might 
study Fang's ways. The man's name was really Laing, 
and Dickens's description led the authorities to take an 
early opportunity of showing him the door." 

"Let us go and find the place," said I, as I took up 
my hat. 



4 KAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

I did not make this offer entirely in my client's inter- 
est ; for if a man should speak truly, I am a bit of a 
Dickensite myself, and it struck me almost as a reproach 
that though for many years I had practised within a 
stone's-throw of Hatton Garden, it had never occurred 
to me to ascertain where the police-office described in 
" Oliver Twist " used to stand. 

Although Mr. James C. Fairfield had accepted my offer 
with grave politeness, and without any show of enthusi- 
asm, I noticed as we turned out of the Inn into Holborn 
that a gleam was in his eye, and I felt sure that with 
him the hunt was up, and that any trail, however faint, 
would be followed to the death. Before starting, I had 
stipulated that I should be allowed to conduct the chase 
in my own way, and somewhat to my companion's sur- 
prise, I headed not towards Hatton Garden, but in the 
opposite direction. When, however, he found that I had 
conducted him to the library of the Law Society in 
Chancery Lane, and had entrenched myself behind a 
rampart of old Law Lists and Post Office Directories, 
his doubts vanished, and peering over my shoulder, he 
followed my quest with unmistakable eagerness. 

It was not long before we found something. The 
Directories did not begin until the year 1840, but the 
Law Lists went back for many years earlier. I began 
at 1836 ; and the Law List for that year showed that 
there was then a Hatton Garden police-court in exist- 
ence, and that three magistrates, one of whom was 
A. S. Laing, Esq., were attached to it ; but there was 
no information as to its exact locality. The Law Lists 
for the four succeeding years were no more explicit on 
this point, though they showed that between 1836 and 
1838 A. S. Laing, Esq., had ceased to administer justice 
in Hatton Garden. This greatly excited my client. 

" Dickens had smashed him, sure enough," he said 
joyfully. 

I was reluctant to give up the Law Lists, for as I had 
turned over the pages, my eye had caught many names 
to awaken old memories ; but my companion was evi- 
dently so anxious to push on with the search that I was 



DICKENS IN HATTON GARDEN 5 

constrained to put them aside and break new ground 
with the Directory for 1840. Here we drew a blank, 
for though the pohce-court was mentioned no address 
was given. But the Directory for 1841 made amends 
for all ; no sooner had I turned to the page relating to 
police-oifices than my client's eye travelled over it with 
lightning rapidity, and I heard in my ear an excited 
whisper, "Number 54 Hatton Garden ". 

We were now fairly on the trail ; but notwithstanding 
Mr. Fairfield's manifest impatience I ventured before 
departing to make a hasty reference to the Directories 
for the next two or three years. From these I ascer- 
tained that between 1841 and 1843 the police-office had 
been removed from Hatton Garden to Bagnigge Wells 
Eoad, and had changed its name to the Clerkenwell 
police-court. 

Within a few minutes of our discovery of the number 
of the house we were on our way eastward ; and the 
long, thin gentleman in the closely buttoned frock-coat 
and sharply pointed patent-leather shoes had regained 
his composure, and was outwardly as calm as fate and 
as cold as charity. 

With malice aforethought, I led him down Southamp- 
ton Buildings and through Staple Inn. Here, he seemed 
on familiar ground, and as he drew near to Number 10 
he put on a pince-nez and let the conversation languish. 
When we reached the house, his face lit up, and fixing 
his eyes on the tablet over the doorway, which bears the 
inscription "P. J. T. 1747," he waved a greeting to it. 
But he did not stop, nor did he say anything. His 
thoughts were with Mr. Grewgious and the other char- 
acters in " Edwin Drood," but he kept his illusions to 
himself. I honoured his reticence, and even felt it a 
little difficult not to let him know that I, too, loved the 
Master's unfinished book, and never went by that old 
house without a mental greeting. 

We passed under the gateway of Staple Inn into the 
roar of Holborn, and made our way towards the Circus, 
When we came to the statue of Prince Consort, my client 
made it plain to me that he was no stranger to the locality. 



6 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

" There are many of the original houses still left," 
said he, indicating Hatton Garden by a wave of his 
hand, " though they look so stout one can hardly believe 
they are more than two hundred years old. This was 
the garden of Ely Place, the Bishop of Ely's London 
house. Queen Elizabeth made him lease it to Christo- 
pher Hatton. That was the beginning of the end ; the 
builder got hold of it in 1659. John Evelyn saw the 
foundations being laid. He said they were designed for 
a little town, and that the place was lately an ample 
garden." 

He had culled these fragments of topography from 
a little sheaf of notes, which he had been consulting 
as he went along. I received them with due reverence, 
but I made a mental note to give him a Eoland for his 
Oliver before I had done with him. 

Hatton Garden lay before us. It was true that many 
of the houses were old, but some of them had been 
modernized almost out of recognition, and at anything 
but rare intervals an unmistakably new building showed 
itself. The shop-fronts, which had altered the appear- 
ance of so many of the original ground-floors, and the 
trade advertisements which met the eye on every side, 
to say nothing of the bustle of the traffic, made the street 
as unlike the fashionable thoroughfare of Evelyn's day 
as that thoroughfare was unlike the "ample garden," 
which he remembered, and which Shakespeare knew. ^ 

Mr. Fairfield was deep in his memoranda. " The 
Dodger and Charley Bates," said he reflectively, " picked 
old Brownlow's pocket on Clerkenwell Green. I have 
identified that place ; the Clerkenwell sessions-house 
stands there. The police-office was quite near at hand, 
and this points to its being some distance from Hol- 
born." 

I admitted the justice of Mr. Fairfield's conclusion ; 
and as we proceeded along the east side of the street 

1 My Lord of Ely, when I was last in Holborn, 
I saw good strawberries in your garden there. 

("Richard IH," Act iii, Sc. iv.) 



- •"'- '— ..asM*.. 


5^ 


•3 


1 


^^■Hl ~1BHW^ 






HATTON GARDEN DOORWAYS. 

KOTE. — No. 13 (See top left-hand doorway !) was "Perdita" Robinson's home 
dui'ing the first years of her married life. 



DICKENS IN HATTON GARDEN 7 

I encouraged him by pointing out that the numbering 
tended to confirm it. 

"Yes, yes," he exclaimed; "the numbers begin at 
this end, and they run consecutively. Fifty-four must 
be a good way in front of us." 

" That leads to Ely Place," he went on, as he pointed 
down a narrow passage on our right. " There's a tavern 
in it called the Mitre. The sign's dated 1540, but I'm 
afraid that's a legend. Yes, I'm afraid it's only a 
legend." 

He said this with a mournful gravity that was posi- 
tively laughable ; but a moment later he had resumed 
his cheerfulness and was pointing out to me that Hatton 
Garden still retained many tokens of its former stateli- 
ness. Some of the elaborately carved and fluted door- 
ways to which he drew my attention would have made 
suitable and imposing entrances to family vaults ; and 
here and there, through open doors, we caught glimpses 
of tessellated marble pavements, and the heavy, carved 
balustrades of ancient staircases. 

At the corner of Charles Street I paused to administer 
my topographical tit-for-tat. 

" That tavern," said I, pointing to the Globe restaurant 
on the other side of the way, " is not without historical 
associations. When Sir George Barclay was hatching 
his plot to assassinate William III, that house was one 
of the places at which he and his fellow-conspirators 
used to meet." 

My client regarded the structure with much interest, 
and proceeded to add a note to the sheaf of memoranda 
which fluttered in his hand. When, however, he sought 
to cross-examine me for further particulars I thought 
it wise to confess that the " State Trials" was my sole 
authority, and that I could add nothing to what I had 
said, and could not even declare that the tavern before 
us was the actual structure in existence in 1696. 

" I suppose you wouldn't care to drop in and question 
the landlord," hinted my companion, with some diffi- 
dence; "no doubt he knows all the traditions of his 
house." 



8 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

" I'm afraid I haven't time this afternoon," said I, not 
much relishing this proposal. 

Our pace quickened as we continued our pilgrimage, but 
there was no getting Mr. Fairfield past the corner of Cross 
Street until he had examined the parochial school-house. 

" 'Established in 1696,' " said he, reading from the 
inscription, and pausing to study the quaint figures 
of a boy and girl in the costume of that day which 
flank each of the two entrances. " I missed this place 
when I was here before," he remarked, as he added a 
note to his memoranda. 

This done, he ran his eye over several of the slips of 
paper in his hand, and then took a long survey north, 
south, east and west. His look was very absent as he 
did this. His next proceeding was to step into the 
roadway, and from the middle of it to renew his survey 
of the four points of the compass. 

" Do you know Bacon's ' Essays ' ? " he asked, with 
some shyness. A moment earlier he had turned in my 
direction, and had given something of a start at finding 
me at his elbow in the middle of the road. 

" Yes, it's rather a favourite book of mine.'' 

"I was trying to reconstruct that garden; as you 
know the ' Essays,' perhaps you will understand what 
was in my mind." 

He said this with a half-smile, but he was evidently 
feeling his way, and was ready at a touch to shrink 
back into his shell. 

" Were you thinking of the flowers which were suited 
to ' the climate of London ' ? " I asked. 

" That's exactly what I was thinking of. Isn't it odd 
to remember that almost anything could be grown here 
in Queen Elizabeth's time ? We know there were heaps 
of roses, for the lease to Hatton stipulated that the 
bishop should have twenty bushels every year. I wish 
I could remember more of that essay on gardens. I'm 
sure Bacon mentions scores of London flowers, but all 
I can call to mind besides roses are hollyhocks, and 
lilies, and daffodils. It's pleasant to think of this place 
as a real garden ; isn't it ? " 



DICKENS IN HATTON GARDEN 9 

Mr. Fairfield was now quite at his ease, and he had 
been speaking with no httle animation. 

" It's pleasant in a sense," I admitted, as I looked 
about me, " but isn't it a little melancholy, too? " 

" I never feel like that in London : I hardly know 
why. Perhaps it's because one recognizes that if the 
open places hadn't been built over hundreds of years 
ago, the London that we know, simply wouldn't exist." 

" Was the bishop's garden a big place? " I asked. 

" It stretched as far as Leather Lane on the west; 
I can't make up my mind how far north it went, but 
the bishop's land ran up a good bit farther north than 
where we are now. Hatton got fourteen a-cres besides 
the garden and some orchards, and the bishop didn't 
give up quite all the land. There was a paddock or 
orchard north of the chapel — he kept that. But leaving 
all the rest out of account, just think of fourteen acres 
of open ground here ! What a view there must have 
been of Hampstead, and Highgate, and Islington ! I 
doubt if there was any building bigger than a cottage 
between here and Hampstead, except the little old church 
of St. Pancras. It's still standing : fancy being able to 
see it from here ! And I daresay you could see the Tower 
and nearly all the City. The walls were still there in 
Hatton's time, and Holborn Hill was a suburb with the 
Eiver Fleet running through a hollow between it and the 
City proper — the hollow that was bridged by the Viaduct 
some thirty years ago." 

"We haven't found that police-court yet," I hinted, 
after a pause. 

" True, true ! we must be getting on ; your time is 
valuable," he answered penitently. 

Before Cross Street was many paces behind us he 
had cleared his mind of the London of Elizabeth, 
and was once again all eagerness to find the police-ofl&ce 
of "Oliver Twist," but as we drew near the northern 
end of Hatton Garden, and the numbers were nearly ap- 
proaching the fifties, his hopes seemed to be sinking 
low. Whenever we passed a newly-built house, he eyed 
it mournfully, but with something of an air of resigna- 



10 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

tion, and when we came on Number 50, and found it to 
be brand-new, and a few houses ahead we saw another 
undoubtedly modern building, he had evidently prepared 
himself for the worst. Even I was conscious of a slight 
feeling of apprehension — could that new house be Num- 
ber 54 ? Mr. Fairfield paused at Number 52, really, I 
think, because he wished to postpone for a moment the 
realization of his fears, but ostensibly to examine the 
coat of arms upon the pediment of the doorway, and the 
smaller shields to right and left of it. 

At the next house but one we stopped, and a sigh of 
relief burst from my companion. It was manifestly a 
very old house, and under the spacious double-fanlight 
over the entrance were the figures 54. It was a sub- 
stantial dwelling of four storeys, each of which except 
the first showed a line of three windows, warped with 
age. On the ground-floor the space of the third window 
was taken up by the doorway. The door stood open, 
and beyond it at the end of a short entrance hall, some- 
what poorly panelled, was another door, crowned with 
a fanlight, through which could be seen part of an old- 
fashioned staircase. The house was divided from the 
pavement by a railed area of no great depth, and was 
apparently in the occupation of a commercial firm. 

"It's the place, sure enough!" said Mr. Fairfield 
breathlessly. " Let us step just inside ! " 

The hall was by no means impressive ; but the door- 
chain, which was an iron cable of very fair thickness 
and of sufficient length to extend across the full width 
of the entrance, and also certain evidences which the 
door itself presented that at one time it could be secured 
by an iron bar, spoke eloquently of the fact that in 
former days Hatton Garden had for its immediate 
neighbour a district seething with crime. 

" I want to trace the progress of events just as they 
are set out in the book," said Mr. Fairfield, whose usually 
placid countenance was flushed with excitement. " Oli- 
ver was brought through two or three streets, and down 
a place called Mutton Hill, when he was led beneath a 
low archway and up a dirty court, into the police-office, 



DICKENS IN HATTON GARDEN 11 

by the backway. We've got to find that backway — and 
I guess it's round yonder." 

He pointed northward, and started off at a brisk trot. 
Twenty or thirty yards brought him to the corner of 
Hatton Wall ; and he turned down it at a pace that re- 
called to my mind poor Oliver's dash for freedom. For- 
tunately, no one cried " Stop thief ! " after the American 
citizen, as he disappeared round the corner ; his shoes 
twinkling in the sunshine, and his ample vestment 
blowing out behind him. 

By the time I, too, had turned the corner he was 
thirty or forty yards ahead. In another instant, he had 
come to a sudden stop, and regardless of appearances, 
was waving me forward with his hat. When I got up 
to him, I found that he was standing in front of a tavern, 
and that under a portion of the premises, there ran an 
archway, giving access to a narrow passage, called Hatton 
Yard, which led to the backs of the houses in Hatton 
Garden. At the end of the side-street in which we were 
standing, and only a few yards ahead of us, ran Great 
Saffron Hill. 

We were both through the archway in the twinkling 
of an eye. We found that the passage into which it led 
was bordered on one side by stables, and on the other 
side by certain low irregular structures, which had evid- 
ently been built in recent times over the back-gardens 
of the houses in Hatton Garden. It was easy to see, 
that when the street was a residential quarter of some 
pretension, the houses were provided with stabling in 
the rear, and that the passage in which we were stand- 
ing gave access to it. The place was decidedly unlovely, 
and my companion's face was very downcast as we ex- 
amined it ; for, though it was easy to locate with toler- 
able accuracy the back of Number 54, no trace of an 
entrance was visible. 

" Oliver was taken into a small paved yard at the back 
of the police-ofi&ce, where the cells were, but it seems 
clear that we can't follow him," said my chent rue- 
fully. " Some accursed buildings have been erected 
over the yard, or at all events, over the approach to it. 



12 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

The place was open enough when Dickens saw it ; for 
when Nancy was sent to find out what had happened to 
Ohver at the poKce-office, she went in by the back way 
and tapped with her keys on the cell doors, and made 
inquiries of the occupants. It was a nice free-and-easy 
way of keeping prisoners." 

We made our way back to the main thoroughfare, 
and stood once more in front of Number 54. 

"The police-office," said my companion, "was a 
front parlour with a panelled wall. Can there be any 
doubt that the room before us is that self-same 
parlour? " 

I applied the full force of my intellect to this knotty 
problem; and, at length, I felt justified in intimating 
with true judicial gravity, that I thought the matter 
admitted of no doubt whatever. Mr. Fairfield bent 
himself over the area railings, and peered through one 
of the windows of the ground-floor. 

"The room is panelled," he gasped; "I can see it 
distinctly. It is panelled all over. In that very room, 
sir, the magistrate sat behind a bar at the upper end — 
that means the end farthest from us ; and on one side 
of the door — the very door that gives upon the entrance 
hall — was a sort of wooden pen in which they put Oliver ; 
and standing by the bar was a bluff old fellow in a 
striped waistcoat. Man alive ! can't you picture the 
whole scene ? ' ' 

I did not directly answer this question ; out of sheer 
perversity, I preferred to stir up the enthusiast rather 
than sympathize with him. 

" But surely the whole scene was fictitious," I urged, 
with all Philistine obtuseness. 

He turned upon me like a roused lion. I suppose 
my face betrayed me ; for the indignation in his eyes 
gave place to a twinkle, and for a moment something 
not far removed from a wink fluttered in one of them. 
When I came to know the man better, I found that 
no one could be more keenly alive to the comic side of 
his enthusiasm than he was. I had a suspicion of the 
fact that afternoon, when instead of denouncing me for 



DICKENS IN HATTON GARDEN 13 

a soulless hog, he stood looking into my face with that 
twinkle in his eye. 

" It isn't so much because Dickens has described these 
places that I take an interest in them," he said, as he 
put away his memoranda. "It's not so much because 
Dickens used them as a stage for his characters that 
I like to hunt them out. It's because I know he went 
over every inch of the ground himself. And that being 
so, when I see these places, they seem to bring me near 
him.'" 

He spoke with placid gravity and without the least 
self-consciousness. "I feel that way now, sir," he went 
on ; and as he spoke he placed a hand on my arm and 
pointed to the windows before us — " Charles Dickens 
has been in that room." He said this with so much 
reverence that I felt abashed. 

"It's odd to think of what has gone on in there," 
observed my companion, after he had made a leisurely 
examination of several further scraps of memoranda 
and had meditated for a while. " Justice was a harsh 
thing in the old days. Perhaps it's as well that walls 
can't speak." 

" Even a modern police-court is hardly a place of 
cheerful memories," I hinted. 

" I was thinking of Eliza Fenning. She was brought 
before the magistrate in that room. I was wondering 
just now what the rights of the case were. Dickens 
says in one of his letters to Walter Thornbury that she 
was innocent, but that wasn't what the judge and jury 
thought. She was hanged for trying to poison her 
master and his wife and son with arsenical dumplings. 
That was in 1815. The case made a great stir at the 
time." 

"I'm afraid I never heard of her." 

Mr. Fairfield laughed. "If I come across anything 
connected with a place I'm interested in, it hides itself 
in my memory in some mysterious way or other, and 
when I see the place, the thing pops up in my mind. 
And I was thinking of somebody besides Eliza Fenning 
— Grimaldi the clown." 



14 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

"I have heard of him," said I proudly. 

Mr. Fairfield laughed again. " He was charged with 
having hunted an overdriven ox in the fields of Penton- 
ville — that was before Laing's time. Joey came off with 
flying colours. The case was heard there, I'm glad to 
have got a glimpse of that room." 

"And aren't you going to knock at the door, and ask 
if you may go inside ? " 

"No, sir, I am not," was the Johnsonian answer; 
and there was no mistaking the acidity in Mr. Fairfield's 
voice. 

POSTSCEIPT 

" THE QUEEN MUST HAVE HER WHiL " 

18. Eliz. March. — Richard Cox Bishop of Ely granted to 
Christoper Hatton the gatehouse of Ely Place and certain other 
buildings, fourteen acres of land and the keeping of the gardens and 
orchards for twenty-four years. 

The bishop stood in his garden fair, 

And lo, it was Easter-day ! 
His gaze went forth to the hill-crowned north, 

And he sighed as he turned away. 
My lord of Ely was seventy-five ; 

His tread it was passing slow, 
His hands were locked, and his head was bent, 
And many and many a sigh he spent 
As down the middlemost alley he went, 

With daffodils all a-blow. 

He eyed the strawberry beds afar, 

And they were a goodly reach ; 
The almond tree was a sight to see, 

And so was the early peach. 
" It irks me sore," he muttered aloud, 

And groaned in his despair : 
The sunshine lay on his palace wall ; 
The gatehouse weathercock gleamed withal, 
And big blue violets, heavy and tall, 

Were blossoming everywhere. 

The chimes rang out upon Holborn Hill 

And theirs was a joyous swell ; 
St. Sepulchre's chimes rang in betimes 

Whenever St. Andrew's fell. 



DICKENS IN HATTON GARDEN 15 

And O, for more than a mile beyond 

The valley that lay between, 
The bells were ringing their Easter calls ! 
And, lording it over the City walls, 
The great dwarf tower of the great St. Paul's 

Looked down upon all the scene. 

The bishop stood in his garden fair, 

And sadly he gazed his fill. 
^' It irks me sore," he muttered once more ; 

"But the queen must have her will." 
And all in haste was the lease drawn out. 

For Hatton was wild to close ; 
But little enough would Christopher pay : 
Ten pounds in money, ten loads of hay ; 
And as for the garden — on Midsummer-day 

The rental was one red rose. 



CHAPTEE II 

WITH DICKENS TO THE MARSHALSEA 

Soon after our pilgrimage to Hatton Garden, in search of 
the police-office of "Oliver Twist," my relations with my 
client began to grow closer and more intimate. I found 
on better acquaintance that though Charles Dickens 
claimed his most fervent worship, he was aware that 
the pantheon of English literature contained many other 
divinities ; and as he loved to ramble about the neigh- 
bourhood of their haunts, I, who had a fondness in the 
same direction, was often glad enough to bear him com- 
pany. He was always interesting and interested, but 
there was no return of the wild enthusiasm that had 
overmastered him in Hatton Garden. Never again 
did I see that dry spare figure shake off its more than 
fifty winters and break into a run. 

One Saturday afternoon, some months after our first 
ramble, he turned up at my office in Gray's Inn, and 
demanded if I was at liberty. 

"I was dipping into Forster's ' Life' last night," he 
said, as he settled himself in the chair which my clients 
have so often found a stool of penitence, " and I came 
upon those scraps of the autobiography which Dickens 
began to write, and which he afterwards made use of 
in ' David Copperfield '. They tell of his employment in 
the blacking- warehouse at Hungerford Stairs." 

I had some faint recollection of the fragments to 
which my client referred. " Dickens was quite a child 
at the time, I think," was my comment. 

"It was in 1824, when he was only twelve years old. 
The boy's father was a prisoner for debt in the Marshal- 

16 



WITH DICKENS TO MARSHALSEA 17 

sea, and the family home was there. Little Charles used 
to walk back to the prison from the warehouse, across 
Blackfriars Bridge. He says he turned out of the 
Blackfriars Road by the side of Rowland Hill's Chapel. 
I'm not very familiar with the country on the other side 
of your river, and I don't know whereabouts that chapel 
was. Do you know ? " 

I nodded assent. The building had been pointed out 
to me in the days of my youth by an aged aunt of great 
piety, who in earlier years had been a worshipper there. 

" I thought perhaps we might stroll in that direction, 
and make our way to the Marshalsea by the route that 
child followed in 1824, or as near to it as we can guess," 

I had no objection ; and we started on our way. We 
crossed the " Sahara Desert of the Law " and quitted the 
Inn by the " old gateway " which gives upon Gray's Inn 
BiOad, and which for some mysterious reason bears the 
winged horse of the Inner Temple. Through this portal, 
beneath which Jacob Tonson kept his shop, and hard 
by which in still earlier days grew an ancient tree, long 
famous as a landmark, we passed into the main thorough- 
fare. I had a bonne-houche for Mr. Fairfield in the im- 
mediate neighbourhood; so I led him eastward across 
the road and down Bell Court, which is nearly opposite 
the gateway. At the end of the court I turned off to 
the right ; and leading my companion down a narrow 
passage and following it in a sharp turn to the left, I 
brought him up in White Hart Yard. We were just 
approaching Brooke Street, upon which the yard gives, 
when I came to a standstill. 

" That house may interest you," I said carelessly, 
pointing to the west end of the yard. " It must be of 
enormous age." 

The house referred to was in the occupation of a 
cowkeeper and dairyman. It was a very ancient struc- 
ture, lop-sided, and top-heavy ; built almost entirely 
of wood, and roofed with fluted red tiles. There were 
two small windows on the ground-floor, one of which 
belonged to the shop. On the south side of the yard 
stood another wooden structure, evidently appurtenant 
2 



18 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

to the old house. This consisted of two storeys, the 
lower of which was used as a stable or cowshed ; 
and along the upper, which apparently contained two 
or three living rooms, ran a light wooden gallery. The 
whole of the premises bore such a strange pastoral air 
and seemed so out of character with the modern brick 
and mortar by which they were hemmed in, that they 
carried the mind back to those early days when travellers 
from Gray's Inn to Ely House made their way thither 
by footpaths which ran through green meadows. 

The house and its appurtenances occupied the west 
and south sides of the little close ; on the north side were 
two dwellings, and the east side was formed by one of 
the houses in Brooke Street, under which ran a passage 
into that street. 

This old house was my bonne-houche, and Mr. Fairfield 
received it with the most gratifying enthusiasm. 

"It is extraordinary — extraordinary," he exclaimed 
as he fitted on his pince-nez and gazed on the building, 
long and eagerly ; " really, I must try and learn some- 
thing of its history. Fortunately, I see syphons in that 
shop window," he ejaculated a moment later. 

Without explaining this enigmatical remark, he made 
his way to the entrance of the shop ; and bending his 
long body over the half-door, he addressed the young 
woman in charge. The place was so tiny that all the 
business of the establishment was done over its dwarf 
portal, with the customer standing outside. 

" Can you oblige me with a bottle of lemonade? " he 
asked blandly. 

" To take away, I suppose," observed the damsel, as 
she turned to the shelf behind her. 

"Oh dear, no," answered Mr. Fairfield, somewhat 
taken aback at the suggestion that he wished to burden 
himself with such an incumbrance ; " I shall esteem it a 
favour if you will allow me to drink it here." 

"This is a very old house of yours," he remarked as 
he stood in the yard, glass in hand, and gazed through 
his pince-nez upon the interior of the little shop. 

"I daresay it is," was the answer, given with per- 



WITH DICKENS TO MARSHALSEA 19 

feet politeness but an entire lack of interest. This 
was very discouraging ; and as I stood by my client's 
side and marked the disappointment upon his counte- 
nance, I nearly laughed aloud. 

" You have no idea how old, I suppose ? " he resumed, 
after a sip of his lemonade. 

"Not the least," said the young lady — "you know 
more about the place than I do," she added, turning to 
an elderly man who stood behind us, and addressing him 
by his Christian name. 

Mr. Fairfield wheeled round and confronted this in- 
dividual. 

" Surely the house is very old, sir," he remarked with 
grave politeness. 

" Old ! I should think it was old. No one knows how 
old it is." 

"Perhaps three hundred years," suggested my client. 

" More than that, very like." 

" I suppose it was at one time a farmhouse, standing 
in the fields," resumed Mr. Fairfield, much encouraged. 

"It was a tavern,'' replied the elderly man, with the 
air of one who gives an answer beyond his questioner's 
expectations. "These was the stables," he added, 
pointing to the galleried wooden structure on his right. 

This man's notion of a tavern was probably something 
very different from the picture which the word, used in 
connexion with that old house near Gray's Inn, called 
up in the mind of my companion ; but it was evident 
that the stranger from the far west was hugely pleased 
with the information. He took a moderate draught from 
the glass in his hand, and positively smacked his lips 
with enjoyment. 

" This lemonade is most excellent ; and really I must 
trouble you for one of those," he proclaimed, as he 
turned with a beaming smile to the young woman, and 
pointed to a glass jar of heart-cakes. His anxiety to 
keep the establishment in good humour until he had 
extracted from it every particle of information was so 
manifest that I could not keep back a smile. The 
elderly man noticed this ; and gazing hard at me, he 



20 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

closed his left eye. Though I was not sure of his mean- 
ing, I felt little doubt that he wished to indicate that 
he recognized in the two strangers a harmless lunatic 
and his keeper. Nevertheless, I thought it right in my 
client's interest to return the wink. 

" Do you know when the house ceased to be a tavern ? ' ' 
resumed Mr. Fairfield with intense interest, as he stood 
on the asphalt, with the glass in one hand and the heart- 
cake in the other. The correctness of his long frock- 
coat and general tenue made the picture very comical. 

" It was before we come here, and that's more than 
thirty years ago," was the answer. 

" Perhaps you don't know what it was called ? " 

The elderly man shook his head. 

" This place is called White Hart Yard," I ventured 
to interpose. " Many of the places in London that are 
called yards, owe their names to the taverns to which 
they once belonged. Don't you think it probable that 
this tavern was the White Hart ? " 

"There can be no doubt of it," was his emphatic 
answer ; " and," he continued with growing triumph, 
" if this yard took its name from the tavern, surely the 
tavern must have been of great antiquity." 

No more information was forthcoming, except a state- 
ment that if the house fell down the County Council 
would not allow it to be rebuilt in the same style ; and 
after Mr. Fairfield had with scrupulous politeness finished 
both the lemonade and the heart-cake we resumed our 
pilgrimage. 

"This is Brooke Street, where Chatterton died," I re- 
marked, as we passed under the archway ; " and Fox 
Court, where Savage said he was born, runs out of it, a 
few paces to our right." 

My companion was in a brown study, and did not 
seem to notice what I said. We crossed the road and 
turned down Greville Street, which for so many cen- 
turies formed the northern boundary of Furnival's Inn ; 
now, alas ! no more. I pulled him up here, to point out 
that Numbers 24 and 25 Brooke Street were old. 

" It seems likely they were built about the same time 



WITH DICKENS TO MARSHALSEA 21 

as Chatterton's house. You see those garrets with the 
parapets." I was gratified to observe that my com- 
panion thought the old houses worthy of a memorandum. 

Continuing our way down Greville Street, we turned 
to the right into Leather Lane ; and so deep was 
Mr. Fairfield's renewed meditation that he seemed 
oblivious of the fact that we were passing the site of 
the house in which the " Pickwick Papers " were written. 

" Supposing that house is only three hundred years 
old," he remarked, emerging from his reverie ; " suppos- 
ing it was not built till 1601, just think of what it may 
have seen ! Perhaps Shakespeare turned into it when 
he played in Gray's Inn Hall. Milton, too, may have 
been there " 

" Milton ! " I ejaculated. " What would he be doing 
in such a place? " 

" Well, we are told he had some gay friends in Gray's 
Inn." 

"But I don't suppose," continued Mr. Fairfield, as if 
recognizing a certain incongruity in associating Milton 
with tavern-haunting, "I don't suppose, however gay 
his friends were, or however much he unbent in their 
company, he went a-tippling with them. No, sir, in 
those days men often went to taverns for their meals — 
old Pepys proves this — and I daresay Milton was no 
exception." 

" But even if we don't go so far back as that, or fly at 
such high game," he proceeded, noticing that I was 
smiling, and breaking into a smile himself, " who can 
doubt that when Chatterton poisoned himself at the 
Holborn end of the street, there was plenty of talk among 
the customers of the White Hart ? He died in 1770. 
I was reading about him only last week in Forster's 
' Goldsmith '. Suicide was not common in the eighteenth 
century, and the whole neighbourhood must have known 
that a young man — he was only eighteen, poor lad — 
had been found dead in his garret ; the cup which had 
held the poison still grasped in his hand, and the floor 
covered with fragments of manuscript. You can im- 
agine what a pow-wow there was in that old tavern, 



22 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

and how the decent householders who used it, shook 
their wigs over the wickedness of the act, and declared, 
as they sipped their punch and snuffed the stinking 
tallow candles, that authors were a bad lot." 

" The register of his burial is in that old church 
yonder," quoth Mr. Fairfield, pointing to St. Andrew's, 
Holborn, the west side of which we were just then 
nearing. 

"Archaic stuff like his poetry doesn't appeal to me 
much," he went on, *' but there are bits here and there — 

Sweet his tongue as the throstle's note, 
Quick in dance as thought was he ; 
Deft his tabor, cudgel stout ; 
Oh, he lies by the willow tree ! 

Come with acorn cup and thorn. 
Drain my heart's blood all away ; 
Life and all its good I scorn, 
Dance by; night, or feast by day. 

My love is dead. 

Gone to his death-bed, 

All under the willow tree. 

That seems to me remarkably easy verse for the 
eighteenth century ; and there's a smack of poetry in 
' Come with acorn cup and thorn '." 

"But isn't the whole thing like one of Ophelia's 
songs ? " 

" Oh, yes ! it's imitative ; but, then, think how young 
he was ! And that reminds me — Forster says his body 
was taken to the parish bone-house, and as no one 
claimed it, it was buried in the pauper burial-ground of 
Shoe Lane. I suppose that can't be far off." 

By this time we had reached Stonecutter Street. I 
turned the corner and led my companion a few paces 
eastward into Farringdon Avenue. 

" Not a vestige of the burial-ground remains, but this 
street passes over the site of it," said I. 

The aspect of the place was offensively modern, but 
Mr. Fairfield gazed on it without disfavour. 

" Perhaps here under our feet there still remains some 
fragment of Chatterton," he observed meditatively. 



WITH DICKENS TO MARSHALSEA 23 

We retraced our steps ; and when we regained the 
corner, I drew my companion's attention to a narrow 
tunnel running out of the opposite side of Shoe Lane, 
just below the junction of the lane with St. Bride 
Street. We could read the name " Gunpowder Alley " 
from where we stood, and I reminded him that Lovelace 
the poet had died there. 

"I remember, I remember," he exclaimed, as we 
made our way to the narrow opening. 

" We know it was a very poor place in his time," said 
he, as he gazed up it. " Not much daylight or fresh air 
here, sir, two hundred and fifty years ago." And my 
client fell a-musing. 

"I could not love thee, dear, so much 
Loved I not honour more," 

he repeated after a pause, very softly but with strong 
emphasis. "You made a poor end of it. Colonel, as 
this world goes," he went on, as if addressing the dead 
man's shade ; " and I daresay when your coffin was 
carried out over where we're standing, there weren't 
many mourners with it ; but your lines still make men 
tingle, Kichard Lovelace, and your name smells sweet — 
sweet as a nosegay." 

There was unmistakable emotion in Mr. Fairfield's 
voice as he stood by Gunpowder Alley that afternoon in 
August, 1901, and thought of the gallant gentleman who 
had died there so miserably during the Protectorate. 

" The Lovelaces were a fighting race ; there were at 
least three brothers in the king's army," he said as we 
turned away. " Eichard and Francis were both colonels ; 
another brother was a captain. Something of a record 
that, I think, for one family " 

" Only two colonels ! " I exclaimed with much sym- 
pathy. " Dear, dear ! " 

Although Mr. Fairfield, that very afternoon, had made 
a jocular reference to his countrymen's passion for mili- 
tary titles, it was with a set and austere countenance 
that he received this interruption. But, good patriot 



24 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

though he was, a gleam of amusement sparkled in his 
eye. 

" Rowland Hill's chapel stands at the corner of Char- 
lotte Street, just beyond that railway arch ahead of us," 
I remarked, after we had crossed Blackfriars Bridge. 

" Stands ! " said my companion with great animation. 
" Do you mean it hasn't been pulled down ? " 

" It was shut up as a chapel many years ago, but the 
structure still remains, and I don't think the outside 
has altered much." 

The enthusiast quickened his pace, .and produced from 
his pocket one of those sheafs of notes with which I had 
become so familiar. 

" Dickens must have come along the Strand and Fleet 
Street. I daresay he struck off a bit to go through 
Holywell Street, but except for that, he must have 
followed the main line of route till he got to that obelisk 
on Ludgate Hill which we have just left behind us. 
There have been terrible changes right along since 1822," 
said Mr. Fairfield bitterly ; " but Somerset House 
was there then, and the two churches in the middle of 
the roadway were there. The bridge we've just crossed 
wasn't there, and no doubt the approach to the old 
bridge from the end of Fleet Street wasn't quite the 
same." 

" The Embankment itself would make a good deal of 
difference," I hinted. 

Mr. Fairfield's face seemed to suggest that the Em- 
bankment ought never to have been constructed, but he 
brightened up a moment later and scanned the Black- 
friars Eoad approvingly. 

" This street can't have altered its appearance much, 
now we've got past the railway station." 

I ventured to remark that it could never have been 
anything but a beast of a place ; but my companion was 
so deeply immersed in his memoranda that he allowed 
the outrage of describing in such terms a thoroughfa^re 
which had been hallowed by the foot of Charles Dickens 
to pass uncensured. 

I thought it worth while to take his arm as soon as 



WITH DICKENS TO MARSHALSEA 25 

we had passed Clarist's Church, and lead him down the 
turning which opens between the Prince Albert public- 
house and the south-east corner of the churchyard. It 
seemed a pity not to show such an enthusiast in things 
ancient the five wooden cottages that adjoin the public- 
house. No other survival of old Southwark is half so 
quaint as these cottages, with their tiled roofs and 
dormer windows, 

" Wonderful ! " he ejaculated. " Where are we ? " 

The name of the turning was nowhere to be found, 
but we learned from a small native, that it was Colling- 
wood Street. Mr. Fairfield planted himself against the 
churchyard railings, exactly opposite the third cottage ; 
and after scanning all five of them long and attentively, 
he brought out his pocket-book and began to make a 
note. 

"It may take us some time to find the Marshalsea," 
I hinted. 

" True, true ! I can come again another day," he ad- 
mitted, as he put away the pocket-book and fished 
out his Dickens memoranda. We turned back into 
the Blackfriars Eoad and continued our way south- 
ward. 

" The autobiography says," he presently remarked, 
lifting his eyes from a scrap of manuscript, " that his way 
home was over Blackfriars Bridge and down the turn- 
ing with Rowland Hill's chapel on one side and the like- 
ness of a golden dog licking a golden pot on the other." 

" A venerable aunt of mine, who was an enthusiastic 
member of Eowland's Hill's flock, told me that the 
pastor was buried under his pulpit in that chapel, and 
that the scene at the funeral was most affecting," I ob- 
served, as we drew near the railway bridge. " She 
also told me that the organ was so powerful, that on 
one occasion when it was playing a hymn descriptive of 
thunder, many of the worshippers fainted." 

" I trust the instrument is still in being," said Mr. 
Fairfield with genial irony, as he stared hard in front of 
him ; " grand opera can have been nothing to it. I see 
something on the left, just beyond the bridge, that looks 



26 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

like the lantern belonging to a rotunda ; possibly that 
is the chapel." 

As soon as we had passed under the bridge, it was 
plain that this conjecture was right ; the chapel stood a 
few paces in front of us on the east side of the road. 
Somewhat to my surprise, my eye caught another object, 
but I said nothing. I wanted my companion to find out 
that object for himself ; I knew how refreshing his en- 
thusiasm would be when he came upon it. 

"And this is the famous Surrey Chapel," said Mr. 
Fairfield, as we scanned the front of the building. "I 
almost wonder that the reverend gentleman's flock or 
their descendants could allow such a desecration as this. 
One may at least venture to hope that his venerable re- 
mains have not been disturbed to make room for the bed 
of some steam hammer." 

The chapel had indeed fallen from its high estate. It 
was in occupation as the headquarters of a firm of agri- 
cultural implement makers, and it presented a decidedly 
commercial appearance. We gazed on the front for a 
while, and then turned the corner and inspected the 
building from that point of view. 

" What was it the autobiography said about this turn- 
ing? " I inquired artlessly, when we had completed our 
inspection of the degraded chapel, and were standing at 
the corner of Charlotte Street. Mr. Fairfield referred to 
his memoranda, and read aloud with great gusto : — • 

" My usual way home was over Blackfriars Bridge and down that 
turning which has Rowland Hill's chapel on one side, and the 
likeness of a golden dog licking a golden pot over the shop door 
on the other. There are a great many little low-browed old shops 
in that street of a wretched kind and some are unchanged now. 
I looked into one a few days ago" ["This was written in 1847," 
explained Mr. Fau'j&eld] "where I used to buy bootlaces on 
Saturday nights, and saw the corner where I once sat down on a 
stool to have a pair of ready-made half -boots fitted on. I have 
been seduced more than once in that street on a Saturday night 
by a showman at a corner, and have gone in with a motley as- 
sembly to see the ' Fat Pig,' the ' Wild Indian,' and the ' Little 
Lady '. There were two or three hat manufactories there then (I 
think they are there still), and among the things which, encountered 
anywhere or under any circumstances, will instantly recall that time 
is the smeU of hat-making." 



WITH DICKENS TO MARSHALSEA 27 

" Ah," I remarked meditatively, when the extract was 
finished, "that was close upon eighty years ago! "We 
can hardly expect to find any of the old landmarks left. 
What was it that was opposite the chapel ? " 

" The likeness of a golden dog — " began my com- 
panion, returning to his manuscript. Then he lifted 
his eyes towards the opposite corner of Charlotte Street, 
and gave a great start. 

" Gracious powers ! " he exclaimed in high excitement, 
" why, there it is ! " and he hurried across the roadway. 

Sure enough, above the door of the ironmonger's shop 
that stood at the south corner of Charlotte Street was 
the effigy of a golden dog licking a golden pot. This 
effigy stood out boldly from the house front, supported 
on an iron shaft, and seemingly in excellent preservation. 
It had caught my eye from the other side of the road. 

" This is truly extraordinary," said Mr. Fairfield, 
with a slight flush on his face, after he had made a pro- 
longed survey of the golden dog. " To think that all 
these years after that child used to pass down this street, 
we should still be able to see the very object on which 
his eyes rested, and which he mentioned to Forster in 
1847." 

While my companion was making a note of this 
wonderful discovery, I suddenly bethought me that the 
house of that venerable aunt of mine was just round the 
corner. More than thirty years had elapsed since I had 
last seen it, and as the meals which I had enjoyed 
within its hospitable walls were among the most sacred 
memories of my childhood, I craved Mr. Fairfield's 
leave to bestow a few minutes on an inspection of the 
old place. It was only four or five houses lower down 
the Blackfriars Road than the ironmonger's shop at 
which we were standing, and I found it without difficulty. 
While my client was gazing up at the grimy front 
with sympathetic interest, a sudden flash of memory, 
connected with the houses on the opposite side of the 
road, struck upon my brain. 

"Fairfield," I said, "did you ever hear of Elliston, 
the actor?" 



28 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

"'Joyousest of once embodied spirits,'" was his 
ready answer ; and I recognized the quotation, and re- 
proached myself for having forgotten that Eha had 
made Elliston's name immortal. 

" He died in that house opposite," I said, pointing to 
Number 84. " I fancy that when he took the Surrey 
Theatre and came to live over here, the Beverend Row- 
land Hill and he were generally regarded by the pious 
folks of this neighbourhood as excellent representatives 
of the rival forces of good and evil. My aunt, who 
was of course on the side of the angels, always spoke 
of EUiston with bated breath. She used to describe 
how she watched his funeral from her dining-room 
window, and to hint that it was a good deal grander 
than such a monster of iniquity deserved." 

" He was a poor frothy creature, and a sad tosspot," 
observed Mr. Fairfield, as we moved across the road to 
get a nearer view of Number 84, " but as he was a friend 
of Charles Lamb there must have been some good in him. 
I wonder if Lamb ever went up those steps and used that 
knocker! " 

" I suppose you know the way to the Marshalsea from 
here," said my companion, when he had returned to 
Charlotte Street. He had a great respect for my know- 
ledge of London, and seemed always to take it for granted 
that, no matter where we might be, the way to any 
given point was as plain to me as all the wickedness of 
the world was plain to Mr. Bailey. 

"If we keep east with a little south in it, we shall 
come into Mint Street, and that leads straight to St. 
George's Church. You may depend upon it, the boy 
Dickens liked to cut off corners, and if we keep on the 
slant I don't suppose we shall get far off his route." 

This was playing the game in a right spirit, and Mr. 
Fairfield beamed approval. 

It was a great satisfaction to him to find that most of 
the housed in Charlotte Street were more than eighty 
years old. "That," he said, pointing to a boot-shop 
that we were passing, "may be the very shop where 
he tried on those half-boots. It isn't very difficult to 



WITH DICKENS TO MARSHALSEA 29 

picture what he looked hke, for he says what his clothes 
were." 

The sheaf of memoranda came forth once more. " He 
speaks of his poor little white hat, little jacket and 
corduroy trousers ; and he says he had a fat old silver 
watch in his pocket, which his grandmother gave him." 

" There is still a hatmaker's here," exclaimed my 
client with great joy, as at the corner of the entrance to 
Nelson Square, he caught sight of the familiar name of 
Lincoln, Bennett & Co. "I wonder if it was their hats 
which he used to smell in 1824 ? These railways have 
played havoc with London," he protested very irritably ; 
flying off at a tangent as his eye caught the bridge which 
spans the east end of Charlotte Street. 

"James Watt has much to answer for," I replied; 
and my companion laughed. 

" His invention had a disastrous effect on the livery- 
stable business, anyhow," he said. " Have you ever 
noticed in the old maps of London how thickly livery- 
stables are dotted about the whole face of it? " 

" This is Gravel Lane," I announced, when we had 
passed the King of Prussia public-house, which stands 
at the south-east corner of Charlotte Street, and had 
entered the thoroughfare that runs right and left. " I'm 
not sure it's still called so ; but that's the old name." 

" I have heard of it," said Mr. Fairfield placidly ; and 
with something like a twinkle in his eye he added, " John 
Bunyan's Chapel stood in Zoar Street, which turns out 
of it. I had an impression when we came over the bridge 
just now, that the place was somewhere in this direction." 

We proceeded southward along Gravel Lane for a 
hundred yards or thereabouts. Then I paused ; for I 
was beginning to feel doubtful as to the correctness of 
our route. 

" Look there ! " said Mr. Fairfield, giving me a nudge, 
and pointing through the railway arch on our right 
hand, to a public-house at the south-east corner of 
Surrey Kow. It was a house of such undoubted anti- 
quity and so unlike all the buildings in its neighbour- 
hood, that we were both astonished. 



30 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

" The Old King's Arms ! " muttered my companion ; 
" I guess that king was George the First — perhaps the 
Dutchman, even. I don't think I ever saw a tiled roof 
that shape. I must make a note of this place — lucky 
it's a tavern ! " 

" We won't stop to go inside." I said this with great 
firmness, for I felt no doubt as to what his next move 
would be. 

" But do let me make a note," he answered, laugh- 
ing 

" I believe that's what architects call an ogee roof," 
he said, when the note was finished ; " each of the four 
sides has a wave like Hogarth's line of beauty — some- 
thing like a letter S. Who could have dreamed of find- 
ing such a picturesque old house here ? " 

By this time I had come to the conclusion that the 
sooner we struck eastward the better. We crossed to 
the other side of Gravel Lane — Great Suffolk Street is, 
I think, the modern name of this part of the ancient 
thoroughfare — and retracing our route for some thirty or 
forty yards, we turned down Orange Street. I trusted 
to luck to find turnings that would enable us to shape 
our course a point or two eastward. 

"Poor little mite!" burst out my companion a few 
minutes later, as he surveyed the mean houses that we 
were passing. " He says that he worked from morning 
to night with common men and boys, a shabby child, 
and that he was insufficiently and unsatisfactorily fed ; 
and he says, too, that but for the mercy of God, he 
might, for any care that was taken of him, have become 
a little robber or a little vagabond. I seem to see him 
with my very eyes as we follow up his tracks along these 
wretched streets." 

This absorption in the business in haod was infectious. 
As we went on, a feeling that we were treading in the 
child's footsteps grew upon me also ; and I found my- 
self talking of the way with reference to his journeyings 
between the blacking-warehouse and the Marshalsea of so 
many years before, exactly as if we were following a well- 
marked trail that the small feet had left behind them. 



WITH DICKENS TO MARSHALSEA 31 

Presently the talk died away; and by this time 
my friend's illusion had so taken hold of me that 
I, too, was feeling something like a physical conscious- 
ness of a shadowy little figure flitting before us — the 
figure of a long-haired child in a poor little white hat, 
little jacket, and corduroy trousers : the child Copper- 
field of Phiz's illustrations. 

When we came upon the Southwark Bridge Eoad I was 
satisfied that we were steering a fairly correct course 
for the Marshalsea, but I thought it well to slant off a 
little to the right. Suddenly Mr. Fairfield caught my 
arm. 

" Look there," he said, pointing to the corner of a 
street that we were passing. 

" Quilp Street, late Queen Street," was written up. 

We resumed our way without a word, and the 
shadowy little figure seemed more real than ever. Once 
again, I felt my companion's hand on my arm and I 
looked up — "Clennam Street, late Pike Street," was 
written up at another corner. 

For some time we stood and gazed at this inscription 
in silence. 

"It's quite beautiful," said Mr. Fairfield at length, 
in a voice that was positively tremulous. " Here, along 
the way by which that neglected child used to pass from 
his shameful business to his home in that prison, the 
streets have been re-named after his creations. The 
recollection of that time was so painful to him," he 
went on, not attempting to hide his emotion, " and it 
had so bitten itself into his mind, that, speaking to 
Forster about it three-and-twenty years afterwards, he 
said that to follow his old way home by the Borough 
made him cry after his eldest child could speak. How 
one wishes that he could have known that this would 
be," added my client fervently, with his eyes glued on 
the words, " Clennam Street." 

I myself was a little moved ; but I thought that the 
authorities, no matter how excellent their intentions, 
had not been happy in their selection of at least one of 
the two names. I held my peace, however. 



32 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

When we resumed our way I found that recent im- 
provements had abolished Mint Street, and that in its 
place there was a new and much broader thoroughfare 
leading to St. George's Church, and its name was Mar- 
shalsea Eoad. Mr. Fairfield laughed exultingly when I 
told him of the change. 

" But for Dickens the name of the Marshalsea would 
be as dead as the Pharaohs," said he. 

"We emerged into the Borough High Street opposite 
the church, and my companion led me northward up the 
east side of the street for some fifty yards, and then 
turned into a paved passage running under the houses. 

"This is Angel Place," he said, when we had pro- 
ceeded up it for twenty or thirty paces ; " the prison lies 
inside there on our right. You used to be able to see 
the two rows of houses built back to back that composed 
it. The rooms were about ten and a half feet square, 
and eight and a half feet high. This shell that is built 
over the place is quite modern. The wall had been 
lowered when Dickens was here in 1857 — he says so in 
the preface to ' Little Dorrit ' . You might suppose 
that it had disappeared altogether now ; but look 
here ! " My companion broke off and hurried forward ; 
and a little further on, where the passage narrowed, 
there towered on our right the blank face of an old and 
massive wall of no contemptible height. 

" That is part of the older-prison wall," he observed 
triumphantly. " That's where the smugglers were 
supposed to be kept when Dickens was a boy," 

Mr. Fairfield led me back to the main thoroughfare, 
and planted me on the west side of it, opposite the 
passage we had just explored. 

" The entrance to the prison was where that house 
now stands," he said, pointing to the third house to the 
right of Angel Place. 

The house in question was Number 211. I had no 
reason to doubt my friend's word ; but I felt more confi- 
dence in the accuracy of his topography when I observed 
that the front was different from that of its neighbour on 
either side. 




ST. GEORGE'S, SOUTHWARK, AND THE MARSHALSEA GATE. 

{FioiH Huglispn's "London," 1S07.) 



WITH DICKENS TO MARSHALSEA 33 

" When Dickens came here in 1857, he found the 
front court of the prison turned into a butter shop. 
That house covers the site of that court. I've looked 
into this matter very carefully," the enthusiast went 
on, with growing earnestness, " and I'm quite satisfied 
that the gate of the prison stood flush with the houses 
that are now Numbers 209 and 213. Behind this gate 
was an open space. This was the courtyard Dickens 
speaks of, and at the end of it was a lodge, and this 
gave entrance to the prison. Dickens tells us " — here 
the sheaf of memoranda came into requisition once 
again — "he tells us that on the night when Arthur 
Clennam saw Little Dorrit home, she flitted in at the 
open outer gate and little courtyard of the Marshalsea. 
She flitted in, sir," said Mr. Fairfield, putting back his 
memoranda with one hand and pointing to Numbers 
209 and 213 Borough High Street with the other, " be- 
tween those two houses ; and it was there that Dickens 
himself used to flit in nearly eighty years ago." 

Note. — Since the above chapter was printed Mr. Fairfield has 
obtained access to the Marshalsea register, and has learned there- 
from that Dickens' father entered the prison on the 20th of 
February, 1824, and was discharged on the 28th of the following 
May. On hearing from my friend that the register showed that the 
discharge was obtained under the then Insolvent Debtors' Act I was 
able, by reference to the "London Gazette" of 1824, to ascertain 
that the petition of John Dickens, "formerly of Portsmouth, 
Hants, afterwards of Chatham, Kent, then of Bayham Street, 
Camden-town, Middlesex, and late of Gower Place North in the 
same County, a clerk in the Navy -Pay- Office " was answered for 
hearing at the Old Bailey on the 27th of May. Readers of "David 
Copperfield" will remember that Mr. Micawber took the benefit 
of the Act, and that he, too, was not set free until the day after 
the hearing of his petition — " some fees were to be settled and some 
formalities observed before he could be actually released". The 
prison club, it will be remembered, received him with transport 
on his return from court, and held an harmonic meeting that 
evening in his honoiu:. It appears by the Marshalsea register 
that the fees paid by John Dickens amounted to ten and tenpence. 
— C. T., June, 1910. 



CHAPTEE III 
THE BANKSIDE VISITED 

We made our way up the Borough High Street, intend- 
ing to cross the river by London Bridge. I could not 
resist taking my companion down Layton's Buildings, 
the turning next to Angel Court, for the purpose of 
showing him its queer little row of two-storeyed houses 
festooned with Virginia-creeper. These small dwellings 
with their front yards, that were once no doubt gay 
with cottage flowers, look strangely out of place within 
a few feet of such a roaring commercial thoroughfare as 
the Borough High Street. 

We lingered too, now and again, to investigate some 
of the narrow yards on the east side, that were once the 
entrances to the famous hostelries whose names they 
still bear. One of these — George Yard — yet leads to its 
old tavern ; and though that tavern be now shorn of 
some of its ancient glories, it still presents an imposing 
appearance, with its long rows of windows and its two- 
storeyed gallery, in which the bells, that of old used to 
Jangle so often and so fretfully, now hang silent and 
undisturbed. 

We came at length within sight of London Bridge. 
On our left was St. Saviour's, and we paused at the top 
of the steps which lead down to it. 

" You know the church, I suppose — St. Mary Overy ? " 
I said. 

"Oh, yes," was the indifferent answer, "I've been 
over it. It's a show place ; everybody goes there." 

I remembered that Robert Harvard, the father of the 
founder of Harvard University, was buried there, and 

34 



THE BANKSIDE VISITED 35 

I felt no doubt that the fact was mentioned in all Ameri- 
can guides to London. I had noticed, that if any place 
were supposed to be of peculiar interest to Americans, 
my friend always fought shy of it ;, so his answer did not 
surprise me. 
' " And the Bankside — do you know that ? " I inquired. 

" The Bankside — no, I haven't seen it," he answered 
meditatively ; and then with a quickened interest 
he went on, " I've read of it, of course — Shakespeare 
and the old playhouses. But I didn't know that there 
was anything left to see." 

"You come with me," said I, and I led him down 
the stairs and round the churchyard. I was on familiar 
ground. 

" This is Winchester Yard," I announced, when after 
following the railings to the south-west corner of the 
churchyard we had crossed the road in front and dived 
down "Winchester Street and the street which turns out 
of it on the right; "it is said to be the site of the 
courtyard of Winchester House." 

I did not dare to speak more positively ; for though I 
had known the Bankside for many years, and had read 
a good deal about it in a desultory way, I did not feel 
strong enough to be put to the question, and called upon 
to give chapter and verse for my knowledge. 

"The Bishops of Winchester had a palace here," I 
went on; "they had a prison too, it was called the 
CHnk." 

"Ah, they have the word in your army still. It was 
used several times in the conversation with the elephant." 

" What elephant ? " 

" The elephant—' My Lord the Elephant,' that Mul- 
vaney fell in with after he had been exercising his 
' handicraftfulness ' upon Sergeant Kearney's beak. — 
' 'Twas a fine big nose, and well it paid for a little 
grooTTiin',' " quoted Mr. Fairfield dreamily. 

I recognized the allusion now, and I joined him in his 
solemn mirth. 

"We shall see Clink Street presently," said I, to 
bring us back to our muttons. " When I first knew this 



36 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

yard there was a row of houses on the west side, and 
the corner house tQ the north was a tavern." 

Mr. Fairfield surveyed the open space to which his 
attention was directed and made no remark. It cer- 
tainly was dreary of aspect, and the buildings round it 
were singularly uninteresting. We retraced our steps 
and continued our circuit of the churchyard. This led 
as to Church Street, and a few paces northward brought 
as to the queer little dock, that still bears the name 
which the old church bore, till bluff Harry broke into 
the spence and turned the monks adrift. The quaint- 
ness of the spot and the refreshing and most unexpected 
river view which it opened up, rekindled my friend's 
interest. 

The dock was so narrow that the space it occupied 
was a mere chink between two lofty buildings, which 
rose straight out of the water. Unfortunately, the tide 
was so low that the slimy bottom was visible ; but 
ahead lay the river sparkling in the sun, and a fresh 
breeze from the north-east blew in our faces. "We had 
been so hemmed in by brick and mortar all the after- • 
noon that we were glad to lean our elbows on the low 
wall that separated the dock from Church Street, and 
drink in the prospect. 

" ' St. Mary Overy Dock,' " said my companion, read- 
ing from a board on our right. " St. Mary Overy Dock ! 
That's picturesque." 

"'This dock is a free landing-place, at which the 
parishioners of St. Saviour's parish are entitled to land 
goods free of toll, ' " he continued, reading from the 
board. " If I were a parishioner," he said, smiling, " I 
should make a point of exercising the privilege, even if 
the authorities had to pull down this wall to make way 
for my cargo. For all our sakes, I hope that tunnel 
isn't in use now," he broke off, pointing to the mouth 
of an old brick drain, which entered the dock from 
Church Street, and which at the then state of the tide 
was open to our view. 

We turned westward, and presently entered one of 
the oddest streets in London. It was of no great width, 



THE BANKSIDE VISITED 37 

and on each side of its granite causeway ran a lofty row 
of buildings, pierced with heavily-framed grimy windows, 
rusty gratings and huge doors. Over our heads ran 
many bridges connecting the upper storeys ; and on 
some of the sills and ledges of the singularly flat brick- 
work, the flour-dust lay so thickly that blades of grass 
were sprouting out of it. 

" That is Stoney Street," I said, pointing to a narrow, 
rudely-paved street that ran southward out of the gloomy 
thoroughfare through which we were making our way, 
and led apparently to a series of railway arches. 

" A very appropriate name," admitted Mr. Fairfield 
with cheerful alacrity. 

" Pennant says," I continued, " that it is probably a 
•continuation of the Roman Watling Street, and that in 
his time traces of the causeway existed on the other side 
of the river. Stoney Street used, of course, to go down 
to the water's edge." 

"It is a pity, sir, that it does not go there now," 
was my client's answer, as he gazed on the forbid- 
ding pile of brick and mortar that lay opposite its 
mouth. 

As we continued our way along the street with the 
overhead bridges, it grew drearier and drearier, and Mr. 
Fairfield gazed about him with a smile which he did not 
attempt to conceal. 

" There must be a dehghtful view of the river from 
the back windows yonder," said he, with a wave of his 
right hand. 

"This," I remarked solemnly, "is Clink Street. 
Shakespeare is said to (have lived here." 

As I played this trump card I watched my com- 
panion's face. 

The smile disappeared as he stopped and looked about 
him ; then it came back and broadened. 

"I hope, sir, he lived on the river side of it," he ob- 
served. " The back rooms may have been almost 
habitable." 

This flippancy was inexcusable in the enthusiast from 
Chicago, but I bore it without protest — the street was so 



38 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

depressing. We reached the end of it at last, and here 
the prospect opened a little, 

" ' Bankend,' " said my companion. The name was 
written up on one of the houses which fronted us, on 
the opposite side of the thoroughfare that ran to right 
and left. The house at the north corner was a tavern 
of old-fashioned and comfortable appearance. 

" The Bankside ends there," I explained, pointing to 
that corner. 

" This looks more promising," said Mr. Fairfield, 
when he saw the tavern, and saw also that its north 
front looked upon the river ; and he moved towards it. 
I delayed him for a moment and pointed to the left. 

" That is Barclay & Perkins' brewery. It covers the 
site of Shakespeare's theatre." 

My companion was really interested now. " I think 
I have read that the Globe was a sort of rotunda," he 
said musingly. " Shakespeare refers to it somewhere 
as a wooden — or perhaps that was the Curtain Theatre. 
You don't know exactly where the site was?" 

I did not know. I was not even sure that any one 
knew. 

" The brewery's a big place, I suppose," was his next 
remark. 

" Immense, I believe. It must have destroyed many 
landmarks on the Bankside. There was the Deadman's 
Place burial-ground, for instance. The street in front 
of us was known as Deadman's Place until quite modern 
times. Pennant says that it got its name from the 
number of dead interred there in the great plague. And 
there was a more recent burial-ground here, or here- 
abouts, which was called after the street. The brewery 
has swallowed it up, though it was a place of some note. 
It was full of Nonconformist ministers." 

" Then, it is not the invariable custom in this country 
to bury the pastor .under his pulpit," said my friend. 
He was thinking of the Eeverend Rowland Hill, and he 
was pleased to be merry. 

We moved on to the river. Our view from the em- 
bankment on which we stood was somewhat impeded 



THE BANKSIDE VISITED 39 

by a forest of cranes, which rose out of the wharves, 
that stretched before us, and by the masts and rigging 
of the small craft moored beside them ; but after the 
depressing gloom of Clink Street any view of the river 
was welcome. Not far ahead of us, the prospect west- 
ward was almost closed by the span of Southwark 
Bridge ; but high above lifted the dome of St. Paul's. 

" This embankment is old, I suppose ? " said my com- 
panion. 

"I have read somewhere that it was made by the 
Eomans," was my wary answer. 

'' This is Horseshoe Alley," I said, directing my 
client's attention to a passage that ran under the ware- 
houses on our left hand. " I believe it was here in 
Shakespeare's time." 

We went down it and emerged into Park Street, 
which for some distance runs almost parallel with the 
Bank. 

" This street was certainly here in Shakespeare's time. 
It was called Maid Lane then, and the Globe Theatre 
stood a little to the south-east of where we are standing." 

I allowed this fact to sink into Mr. Fairfield's mind, 
and then I led him back to the river. He stopped for 
a moment near the mouth of the alley to have a last 
look round ; the expression of his countenance was any- 
thing but radiant. My eye caught the words " Armour 
& Co., Chicago," on a neighbouring door-plate. 

" ' When I was at home I was in a better place,' " I 
suggested, pointing to this inscription. 

He took my meaning and laughed quite mirthfully. 
" I am quite content," he said, following out the quota- 
tion in his own mind ; but never a word in praise of the 
Bankside did he utter. 

" You know this bridge ? " We had reached the stairs 
on the west side of Southwark Bridge, when I asked 
this question. 

"Oh, yes! It's the Iron Bridge of 'Little Dorrit '. 
It was here she refused Young John, and it was here 
Old Nandy told her on his birthday what he would do 
if his ship came home. I rather think, too," went on 



40 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

Mr. Fairfield, once again consulting his memoranda, 
" I rather think, it's mentioned somewhere in that auto- 
biography. When Dickens was at the blacking factory- 
he used to wait on this bridge for the servant girl who 
worked for the family in the Marshalsea. Yes, here it 
is. No — I'm wrong ; it was by London Bridge he used 
to meet her." 

There was nothing at all interesting in the buildings 
that lay on our left hand. Many of them showed a 
strong family resemblance to the Clink Street abomina- 
tions, and there was something of a waterside disorder 
everywhere. Past Southwark Bridge, however, I had 
a view to show him. 

I led my companion to the mouth of another narrow 
passage — ^it could not have been more than four feet 
wide — that ran southward into Park Street. 

"This is Eose Alley," I said. "I suppose you have 
heard of the Eose Theatre? " 

" It flourished at about the same time as the Globe, 
I believe," was the answer, " And do you suppose this 
passage led to it?" 

I nodded. " So far as I have been able to ascertain, 
the theatre stood a few feet south of this entrance." 

Mr. Fairfield moved some paces down the alley, and 
looked about him ; then he returned to me, pursing up 
his mouth. It was easy to see, that he found it difficult 
to associate that forlorn prospect with the site of the 
old playhouse. I was not disposed to be hard on him ; 
for all the buildings within sight were of a most com- 
monplace character, and there was a cleared space with 
a hoarding round it, which gave the alley an almost de- 
solate appearance. 

We had not proceeded many yards on our journey 
before my client stopped and pointed to a gateway, 

"Bear Garden Wharf ! " he ejaculated, reading from 
the inscription on it, 

" We are near the site of the old Bear Garden," I said. 

The next turning was wider than Eose Alley, and 
written up was the name " Bear Garden, S.E." 

We turned down it, and presently it opened out into a 



THE BANKSIDE VISITED 41 

small close. This was surrounded by shabby buildings, 
and on our right stood a shabby tavern — the White 
Bear, 

" This place is the site of the Bear Garden," I said. 

" The exact spot ? " queried my companion. 

I felt on pretty firm ground here; so I answered 
boldly. Yes, and went on to tell him that Strype was 
my authority. 

" So this is where Queen Elizabeth used to come," 
said Mr. Fairfield, " I suppose," he continued musingly, 
his eyes fixedj on the White Bear, "there must have 
been a tavern here from the beginning : was there ever 
a place of amusement without one ? The White Bear 
seems a likely name for that tavern ; I wonder if they 
could tell us anything inside ? " 

We entered the bar ; and seating himself upon a low 
stool, with the air of a man who meant to take his ease 
in his inn, he asked for a glass of sherry and bitters. It 
was a little bit of a place, bearing no evidence of hoar 
antiquity. 

"This is an old house of yours," he remarked to the 
lady behind the counter. 

" We haven't been here long, sir," was the answer. 
" But it is an old place; I daresay it's nearly two hun- 
dred years old." 

This was not nearly old enough for my friend's 
purpose ; but it evidently exhausted mine hostess's 
knowledge, and he had no spirit to pursue the conver- 
sation. 

"Anyhow, the name is good," he remarked when we 
got outside. "Did you see it printed on that jug on 
the counter — ' The White Bear, Bankside ' ? Not an 
unlikely address, sir, for a letter of Shakespeare's time." 

After this we rambled on in silence. We passed some 
more uninteresting brickwork, and some more dreary 
open spaces surrounded by hoardings ; but Mr. Fair- 
field kept his eyes glued on the building-line, and 
seemed oblivious of the fact that on our right ran the 
open river. 

A httle west of the Bear Garden lies Emerson Street, 
which is a thoroughfare of quite respectable width. 



42 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

Some fifty yards farther on, the roadway of the Bank- 
side widens out, and there are no objects on the water- 
side to interfere with the view. And a stimulating 
prospect it was that sunny evening. The broad stream, 
spanned by the two bridges at Blackfriars, stretched 
before us all light and motion ; and facing us on the 
opposite bank rose the dome and campaniles of St. 
Paul's, towering above the meaner buildings that hid 
the body of the cathedral from our view. Here and 
there, to right and left, the tower or spire of one of 
the City churches reared its head. The scene was 
familiar to me ; and had my companion been in a more 
receptive mood, I should have told him how glorious it 
was at sunset, as I had often seen it, with the western 
sky all gold and crimson, and the bosom of the water 
gleaming rosy. 

He seemed little disposed to find anything to com- 
mend on the Bankside, but there was no denying the 
majesty of the prospect that lay before us. He took off 
his hat to enjoy the fresh breeze, and for some time he 
stood silent, with his eyes fixed on St. Paul's. 

" I'll be bound there isn't one Londoner in ten thou- 
sand who has ever been on the Bankside, or seen this 
view," he remarked at length. 

I did not demur to this assertion. Perhaps the lan- 
guage was a trifle hyperbolical, but I knew full well that 
the average Londoner was ignorant of the very exist- 
ence of an embankment east of Blackfriars. 

"What's this tiny little court?" asked my client, 
stopping short at an entry not a yard in width, which 
we came to almost immediately after we had resumed 
our progress westward. 

I did not know ; so we walked down it. The way 
broadened a little as soon as we had got beyond the 
depth of the buildings, between which it ran, but no- 
where was it wider than four feet. At the south end of 
it the name was written up — "Cardinal Cap Alley" — 
and here was a narrow roadway, running east and west, 
called Skin Market Place. 

" Cardinal Cap Alley, and leading to Skin Market 



THE BANKSIDE VISITED 43 

Place," ejaculated Mr. Fairfield. "Did ever mortal 
man hear anything more mediaeval ? Do you suppose 
that people ever lived in these rat-hole passages? " 

"I don't think that when Shakespeare lived near the 
Bank there were any streets of houses behind the row 
that faced the river. Very likely, the sites of these 
narrow alleys were footpaths leading from the Bank to 
the open country behind. There were many other 
houses, no doubt, but they stood in little knots, with 
fields and orchards about them." 

" How on earth did a place get such a name as Cardinal 
Cap Alley?" was the next question. 

"Perhaps it led to a tavern," I suggested. I knew 
that old taverns had a fascination for him, and I 
thought that perhaps the notion of there having been 
one called the Cardinal's Cap would cheer him up 
a little. 

" These are positively old houses," he remarked joy- 
fully, when we had retraced our steps to the embank- 
ment. He was gazing at the Phoenix Iron Wharf — 
three red-brick houses with tiled roofs, adjoining the 
alley on the west. 

" This is the first decent-looking building that we've 
seen on this side of the water since we turned out of the 
Borough High Street," he continued, as he adjusted his 
pince-nez. He had forgotten the church. 

" Can you make out what is written up there?" he 
asked suddenly, pointing to the head of a water-pipe, 
not much below the level of the eaves. 

"It looks," I said after a prolonged scrutiny, "like 
an H over a B and an S — probably the B. S. means 
Bankside," I hazarded as a guess — " and a little lower 
down there is on one side of the pipe 17 and on the other 
12." 

"Seventeen hundred and twelve! So the house is 
nearly two hundred years old," said Mr. Fairfield glee- 
fully. " I wish, though, it went back to Shakespeare's 
time. Still it must have seen a good deal." 

"It saw Nelson's coffin pass on its way from Green- 
wich Hospital to Whitehall, at all events," I suggested. 



44 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

My companion did not heed me, for his eyes were 
glued on the water-pipe. 

"There is something over those initials," he said; 
" some device or other." 

I stared hard, and at last saw what he referred to. I 
was about to say that it looked to me like a crown, when 
I felt my friend's clutch on my arm. 

" It's a cardinal's cap ! " he gasped. 

We had met very few people earlier in our ramble, ex- 
cept in the Borough High Street, and on the Bankside we 
had met nobody. But my friend's prolonged inspection of 
the old houses had attracted the attention of some of 
the natives, and by this time a knot of three or four 
of them was standing at his elbow. 

"It's a crown, sir," said one of them very civilly. 

"It looks to me like a cardinal's cap," retorted Mr. 
Fairfield, turning to him with some heat. 

"It's a crown right enough," said another bystander, 
" All the houses about here was Crown property once. 
Over there," he went on, pointing to a cleared space, 
a few paces eastward of where we were standing, " there 
was Queen Anne's guardroom " 

"And prison," broke in the native who had spoken 
first. "You should 'a seen the bars there — close bars 
they was." 

"Queen Anne's prison and guardroom!" ejaculated 
Mr. Fairfield, forgetting for the moment all about the 
device on the water-pipe. " Do you know anything 
about this? " he inquired, turning to me. 

On my shaking my head, he fished out his memoranda 
and gravely made some notes, wholly undisturbed by 
the presence of the bystanders. Then, with a pohte 
good-day, he moved on. 

When we came to Moss Alley, my friend read out the 
name with a mournful air. "Dear, dear!" he muttered, 
as if grieving over the changes which time had wrought 
in the neighbourhood. 

Pike Gardens was the name of the next turning; 
and I could not refrain from remarking that the old 
maps showed that there were pike ponds here in Eliza- 



THE BANKSIDE VISITED 45 

beth's time. Mr. Fairfield again said, ''Dear, dear!" 
and seemed sunk in woe. 

West of the Pike Gardens, there are buildings on the 
north side of the roadway, which hide the river from 
the traveller's gaze. We had only one more turning to 
pass before we reached the end of the Bank. 

'• That is Love Lane," I said cheerfully, when we 
came up to that turning. 

He read the name for himself, gazed down the narrow 
entry that ran between two dull piles of brickwork, and 
uttered something like a snort of indignation. 

" The romantic names of these sordid little slits stink 
in the nostrils," he remarked in explanation of this 
strange conduct. "But we ought to be thankful," he 
went on more cheerfully, as we resumed our walk ; " we 
ought to be thankful there are no dwellings in them. 
They are only passages now. I strongly suspect they 
were rookeries at one time." 

We had now reached the end of Bankside, and were 
within a few yards of Messrs. Epps' cocoa-works, round 
which Holland Street curls. 

" The Falcon tavern stood there," I said, pointing 
across the way to the entrance to the Falcon draw-dock, 
which is almost exactly opposite the cocoa-works. 
" Pennant says it was the favourite haunt of Shakespeare 
and his friends." Mr. Fairfield stared across the road, 
but said nothing. 

We followed the curve of the large red-brick building ; 
on our right was the dead wall of the railway sheds and 
offices. 

"I've no doubt this is a very old way," I remarked. 
" It used to be called the Green Walk ; the calling it a 
part of Holland Street is comparatively recent." 

" The Green Walk ! " snarled my friend, scanning the 
thoroughfare with an eye that was positively malignant. 
" Eeally the streets about here are like Falstaff on his 
deathbed ; they babble of green fields. That is not 
original, sir," he hastened to add; "I came across it in 
an article of George Augustus Sala's years ago; but till 
to-day I didn't know how happy it was This is not. 



46 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

so bad, though," he broke off, pointing to the very old 
house with the wrought-iron railings that stands next 
to the cocoa-works. " I daresay the place was a green 
walk when that was built." 

I held my peace, for I knew there was something 
better not many paces ahead — Hopton's Almshouses, in 
fact. 

When we came on them, the grumbler was silenced 
for the time being. We stopped before the low brick 
houses with white stone dressings and tiled roofs, which 
stand back from the roadway in a grassy courtyard, 
shaded by dwarf plane trees and guarded by high iron 
railings. The place is picturesque at any time, an 
oasis in a desert of grimness ; and on that fine evening 
it was indescribably quaint and peaceful. The sun was 
low in the heavens, and it gave a mellow warmth to the 
old tiles and brickwork and a vivid brightness to the 
green lawns. Some of the inmates of both sexes were 
sunning themselves outside the houses, and a man was 
mowing the grass near the middle of the quadrangle. 
The scene reminded me vaguely of some famous picture, 
and I tried in vain to recall the details to my mind.^ 

We gazed for some time through the railings, watch- 
ing the mower and the listless figures on the benches. 
Before we resumed our journey, my companion with the 
■assistance of his pince-nez, was able to read the simple 
inscription upon the middle house opposite to us — 
" Chas. Hopton, Esq., Sole Founder of this Charitv. 
Anno 1752." 

We turned the corner of Holland Street into South- 
wark Street, and saw the Blackfriars Eoad in front of 
us. We walked along in silence. My thoughts were 
running on the contrast between the listless figures 
basking in the sun and the mower with his scythe. 
His back was turned to the roadway, but there was 
youth in every line of him, and there was something 
very athletic and vigorous in his action, while they 
were all far advanced in decrepitude and extreme old 

^Frederick Walker's " Harbour of Refuge ". 



THE BANKSIDE VISITED 47 

age. They seemed to be watching him, but without 
interest and with lack-lustre eyes. We were crossing 
Blackfriars Bridge when my meditations were inter- 
rupted by my companion. His thoughts had been run- 
ning in the same channel as my own. 

"I was wondering," he said, "whether any of those 
old people were thinking of that line of Longfellow's — 
' There is a reaper whose name is Death '." 



CHAPTEE IV 

THE BANKSIDE REVISITED 

Two or three weeks after our visit to the Bankside, I 
dined with Mr. Fairfield in Soho, at a restaurant that 
was once the dwelHng of Edmund Burke, We had 
made a leisurely progress through the banquet, which 
consisted of five or six hors d'oeuvres, followed by a clear 
soup, a sole colbert, an entree of beef garnished with 
vegetables, a dish of macaroni, a dish of beans, roast 
duck and salad and an ice. In my honour, a full fiasco 
of chianti had been ordered ; and by the time the coffee 
and a liqueur were on their way to us the mighty flagon 
showed by the ease with which one could lift it that due 
attention had been paid to its contents. 

"I like this place," said my host, as he leaned back 
in his chair, and took yet another of the crisp little 
radishes that we had been playing with between the 
courses ever since the beginning of the meal, " I like 
the street, for one thing. Boswell used to lodge here ; 
Burke lived here — the very spot on which we are now 
sitting was once his garden ; Dryden lived here. Dr. 
Johnson and the Club met here, and I know from 
Forster that one of Dickens' uncles lodged here, and 
that Dickens visited him, I suppose he had that house 
in his mind when he described Mr, Jaggers' dark-brown 
rooms in Gerrard Street, And I like the look of the 
place; there are so many of the original houses left," 

" We have had a good dinner in it, too," I remarked. 

"Yes, sir," was the answer. "There is something 
neat and handsome about the continental way of serv- 

48 



THE BANKSIDE REVISITED 49 

ing you. And the food is much better and more varied 
than you can get for the same price from a native caterer, 
either here or in New York." 

" The drink is not amiss, either," I hinted. 

" Oh, no ! " said my friend carelessly, with a slight 
wave of his hand, as if that were a detail not worthy of 
mention. Then he helped himself to another glass of the 
chianti, and gazed round him at the groups of diners — 
mostly foreigners — with an expression of countenance 
that was decidedly benevolent. 

" I am very much indebted to you for showing me the 
Bankside," he said after an interval of silence. 

" I was afraid it bored you." 

" Well, sir, there was an out-at-elbows look about the 
place that rather disappointed me at first, and, some- 
how, I found it difficult to associate it with the Bank- 
side of Queen Elizabeth's time; but when I came to 
think things over, the recollection of that big river, so 
close at hand and so open, and those passages with their 
quaint names, took hold of me. And the next day I 
found my way back to the place and explored it pretty 
thoroughly. Then, sir, I read Besant's ' Bell of Saint 
Paul's ' ; and then I read it a second time. After that, 
I spent a morning or two at the British Museum, look- 
ing up some old maps and finding out what I could 
about the neighbourhood generally ; and the result is " — 
here his manner became unmistakably self-conscious — 
" I've got rather bitten with it : I've been there again — 
more than once." 

" And is it a cardinal's cap on that water-pipe? " 

" I think it is, but I'm not sure. Oddly enough," he 
continued, leaning forward and becoming confidential, 
" I found on dipping into Pennant's description of the 
Bankside, that there was a house there — not at all a 
pretty kind of house — which bore the sign of the Car- 
dinal's Hat. There's something of a coincidence in 
this, and I've been wondering since, if that passage gave 
access to the house, and was called after it. In the 
4 



50 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

course of time, the name might easily get altered from 
Cardinal's Hat to Cardinal's Cap." 

I had taken far less of the chianti than my friend 
had, but I was in too genial a mood to throw doubt 
upon this theory. 

" If I'm right," he went on, " the device was 
put on the pipe because the house was near the 
alley. If H., whoever he was, went to the expense of 
having the initials of his name and address, and the date 
when his house was built, put on the pipe, it's quite 
likely he would have a cardinal's cap put on too." 

*' There's something else," he resumed, as he lit one 
of the full-sized cigars that had been brought to us. 
" Do you remember the large round red-brick building 
that stands just opposite where Shakespeare's Falcon 
used to be ? " 

" The cocoa- works ? " 

" Yes, that's the place I mean ; and I feel sure it oc- 
cupies the exact spot where a mill-pond used to be. At 
the Museum I found on a survey of the Bankside, that 
was made on vellum in Queen Elizabeth's time, a mill- 
pond marked at the top of Gravel Lane, and in 
Eocque's great plan of 1746 there the pond was again; 
and I assure you, sir " — here he became so impressive, 
that he leaned forward with his elbows on the table and 
emphasised his disclosure with a wagging forefinger — 
" that cocoa place — you remember what a wide curve 
the front has — occupies the exact site of that pond, and 
follows the very outline of it." 

" That is very probable," I observed, when I had 
thought the matter over. "If the pond was on the 
west side of the north end of Gravel Lane, and a public 
way or footpath ran round it into the Green Walk, no 
doubt when the pond was drained and the owner wanted 
to build on the site, he would, if he wished to make the 
most of his land, shape his building so as to cover the 
whole of it." 

" Of course he would," declared my host in high glee. 



THE BANKSIDE REVISITED 51 

" And think, sir, what an interest it gives to that build- 
ing if you know that it follows the site of a mill-pond 
where very likely the ostlers of the Falcon used to water 
their horses, and which Shakespeare must have known 
as well as he knew his own house. Sir Christopher 
Wren must have known it too ; for while he was build- 
ing St. Paul's he lived in a house next door to the 
Falcon," 

" I've hunted up the Green Walk too," he went on. 
"You were right when you said it was an old way. 
I'm not sure it wasn't there in Shakespeare's time ; I 
know it was there sixty years after his death ; and what's 
rather odd, you can follow it still from start to finish. 
It began at the mill-pond and went on southward, past 
where those almshouses are, and across where South- 
wark Street runs now — where we turned off, I mean. 
Just beyond the other side of Southwark Street, it 
curved round westward ; the road's called Burrell Street 
now, and it runs into the Blackfriars Eoad and stops. 
But the Walk used to run straight across the site of 
the Blackfriars Eoad, and then it wound round to the 
south again. Do you remember those five wooden cot- 
tages looking on the churchyard ? " 

" Of course I do," 

" Well, the Green Walk ran by them." Mr. Fairfield 
brought this out with an emphasis that was quite 
dramatic. 

" But they're in Collingwood Street." 

" Yes, and that runs into Charlotte Street, fifty yards 
or so west of Eowland Hill's Chapel, and every yard 
of it follows the course of the Green Walk ; and the 
south end of Collingwood Street is where the Green 
Walk ended." 

" Prodigious," I ejaculated, not a little tickled by his 
earnestness. 

" I know it's all very unimportant," said the enthusi- 
ast, smiling and giving his head a shake; "but I've 
got a lot of pleasure out of tracing that old pathway. 



52 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

And I've spent a lot of time mooning about there, and 
trying to recall what it looked like, when it ran between 
hedges and ditches, through green meadows, intersected 
by streams and runnels, with those old cottages and a 
few more like them dotted here and there. You know 
what the neighbourhood looks like now. It's pleasant 
to fancy Shakespeare, slipping away from the Falcon 
crew some summer evening, and strolling along that lane 
as it was in his time, with the wild roses in blossom — 
canker-blooms, he called them : — 

The canker-blooms have full as deep a dye 

As the perfumed tincture of the roses, 

Hang on such thorns, and play as wantonly 

When summer's breath their masked buds discloses." 

A poetical quotation from Mr, Fairfield always gives 
me pleasure. Many reciters have an ugly trick of 
making poetry sound like prose ; but though lyrical 
numbers flow from his lips as freely and spontaneously 
as his common talk, and the ripple of the verse is never 
broken, one's ear is fully conscious of the end of every 
line. And if the quotation be from Shakespeare, there 
is no mistaking its source : it comes out perfumed with 
a kind of reverence. 

As we sipped our coffee and I thought over what he 
had told me, I tried to call up the Surrey side of our 
recent pilgrimage ; but instead of the Blackfriars Eoad 
and the squalid streets that turn out of it, there wavered 
before my mind's eye a vague picture of flat, green water- 
meadows, from which one saw across the river the 
London of Elizabeth, all shadowy in a June twilight. 

" The ' principal mansion house ' of the Manor of 
Paris Garden stood a httle east of those five cot- 
tages: about half-way between them and the river," 
said Mr. Fairfield. "It was called Holland's Leaguer 
— not till after Shakespeare's time though." 

" Did you extend your researches to that tavern at 
the end of Surrey Eow — the Old King's Arms ? " I was 
beginning to get a little bitten myself. 



THE BANKSIDE REVISITED 53 

" I did indeed ! That proved very interesting. I'm 
perfectly satisfied that the site of Surrey Kow used to 
be called the Melancholy Walk, and was the northern 
boundary of St. George's Fields. That tavern stood at 
the north-east corner of the Fields. At one time it had a 
garden on the south side, that ran right into them. Do 
you know anything about St. George's Fields ? " 

" I've heard the name." 

" They stretched a long way south and west of that 
corner. They belonged to the City of London as part 
of the manor of Southwark. Gerard mentions them in 
his ' Herbal '. That was published in 1597 — Shake- 
speare was thirty-three then. Gerard said he hadn't 
found such plenty of water-violets in any one place 
as in the ditches adjoining ' St. George his field, near 
London '. When I came across the quotation in Mr. 
Wheatley's ' Cunningham ' the other day, the thought 
of green fields with clear ditches full of water-violets 
just beyond that old tavern made my head swim. The 
flower only grows in clean water." 

" When were the fields built over? " 

" Soon after Blackfriars Bridge was built, and the 
Blackfriars Boad was cut — say 140 years ago. But 
there was a house at that corner long before then : I've 
traced it back to 1677 — that's the earliest map of the 
part I could find on a scale large enough to show such 
a place. There was stabling or something joined on at 
the back of it. I don't say that the present tavern 
was standing in 1677, but it's old. What do you 
say?" 

" What does the landlord say? " I inquired artlessly. 

The assumption that this source of information had 
not been neglected brought a humorous twinkle into 
Mr. Fairfield's eye, but he answered with perfect gravity, 
" His information on the point was most precise — the 
house was built 433 years ago ". 

" That won't do ! " I said, as soon as I had worked 
out a sum in mental arithmetic; "1468 is much too 



54 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

large an order for that house. Did you argue the point 
with him ? " 

" I hadn't the courage to : he was so positive. I 
thought it better to change front, by remarking that 
the neighbourhood had seen some changes since then. 
It sounds inane, but I had hopes of tapping a reservoir 
of local tradition." 

"And did you?" 

" He expressed his concurrence, and went on to tell 
me that before the railway arch was built — that was 
some thirty years ago, he said — there used to be a sort 
of fair held just in front of the tavern." 

" And is that all the information you got ? " 

" Well, I didn't like to seem too inquisitive — and no- 
body can make a small lemonade last for ever. Some 
afternoon we'll drop in there together, and you shall 
order a bottle of champagne and cross-examine him to 
your heart's content." 

" It will be most enjoyable," said I genially ; "we can 
sing ' Old Eose,' and all of us rejoice together like Izaak 
Walton and his friends." 

Mr. Fairfield hailed my quotation with a laugh. 

" Even allowing that the landlord was wrong about 
that identical house," said he, "it's highly probable that 
there was a tavern on the spot four or five hundred years 
ago. My belief is, that Falstaff and Shallow drank 
there when they went to the Fields from Clement's Inn. 
Don't you remember Shallow's reference to the wind- 
mill in St. George's Fields? " 

" So Shakespeare knew the place." 

" Oh, yes, every Londoner knew it, and theBankside 
people had it close at hand. It isn't a mile from Clink 
Street. Shakespeare had only to walk along the Bank 
as far as the Falcon, and then turn down Gravel Lane 
by the east side of the mill-pond and follow his nose. 
The Old King's Arms used to front on the south end 
of Gravel Lane — there's only the railway arch between 
it and the roadway now." 



THE BANKSIDE REVISITED 55 

I'm afraid the chianti, coupled with Mr. Fairfield's 
topographical disclosures, had made me sentimental. 
In imagination I traced the path from the King's Arms 
back to the Bankside. 

" The river looks very well from the Bank at night," 
I remarked. " Do you care to see it ? " 

Mr. Fairfield beckoned to the waiter; and in less 
than five minutes we were on the flags of Gerrard 
Street. 

" Did you find out anything about the White Hart 
in Brooke Street ? " I asked. 

Mr. Fairfield was hailing a cab at the moment, and 
apparently he did not hear me. A moment later, after 
he had told the man to drive over Blackfriars Bridge, I 
repeated the question ; and again he appeared not to 
hear it. 

" I have often thought," he remarked meditatively 
as we bowled along eastward, " what a privilege it is to 
be able to visit interesting places like the Bankside 
whenever you like, and particularly at night-time. The 
thought has often occurred to me in this city of yours, 
after dark. It really seems sometimes as if the places 
had been cleared of people and lighted up for one's especial 
benefit. I can assure you, sir, I have wandered about 
Upper Thames Street and the lanes behind Cheapside 
and between Cornhill and Lombard Street at night- 
time when the City has been as silent as the grave, and 
when the thought of its immense antiquity as a dwelling- 
place has quite overcome me. More than once, I have 
seemed to lose the sense of my own identity, and to be 
drifting to and fro as a shadow among shadows. Do 
you know that feeling? " he inquired a little shyly, as 
if conscious that his remarks were somewhat out of the 
common. 

I knew the feeling quite well and I told him so. 

It was a fine night, and as the cab crossed Blackfriars 
Bridge the prospect on our right was magnificent. The 
Middlesex side of the river was spangled with lights, 



56 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

and on the stream itself fell the reflection of these and 
of the lamps on the bridges. There seemed to be no 
darkness over the black water; only a twilight veil, 
through which the beams of the electric light struck 
silvery. The Surrey side was enveloped in a mysterious 
shadow, but here, there, and everywhere twinkled the 
lights on the moored craft. High above Waterloo 
Bridge glittered a crescent moon. 

We stopped the cab at the corner of Stamford Street, 
and crossing over the Blackfriars Boad, made our way 
along Southwark Street and into Holland Street. 

" The mill-pond will look well uri der this moon," said 
Mr. Fairfield with grave pleasantry, as we passed the 
almshouses. Standing far back from the silent thorough- 
fare, and with hardly a light showing, the little houses 
seemed asleep. " Surely we ought not to pass the 
Falcon without crushing a cup." 

" Better wait, perhaps, till we get to the Mermaid," 
I answered, falling in with his humour. 

" We can take boat from the Falcon stairs," he 
suggested with unabated gravity. 

" Why not walk along the Bank and cross by — by 
the bridge?" I had intended to say London Bridge, 
but had checked myself before I got to the end of the 
sentence. 

" Ah, the bridge indeed," said my client, noticing 
this ; " the only bridge. How odd it seems." 

" I saw the pike ponds on the old map — the ponds 
where they kept the royal pike," he observed, when we 
had strolled as far eastward as the turning called Pike 
Gardens. " They were in a garden, and I feel sure that 
this garden occupied the ground between this alley and 
Moss Alley, which lies a little in front of us. There's a 
perfect labyrinth of lanes full of small houses at the end 
of Moss Alley. I daresay they, too, were built on the 
site of that garden ! The pike were there in Cromwell's 
time. The land belonged to the Crown. And think 
what a change it must have made when Winchester 



'.'m'p»i^ 




O a 

►J -J 




THE BANKSIDE REVISITED 57 

House ceased to be the bishops' palace, and the park 
and gardens were built over ! " 

I was glad to reach Pike Gardens, and to have the 
open river on our left hand. There were few lights 
upon it, and fewer still in the buildings that rose straight 
out of it on the opposite shore. But the darkness was 
not profound, and by the light of the moon the shapes 
of the wharves and warehouses could be made out. Be- 
hind them, vaporous in outline, but preserving its familiar 
shape and dominating the whole prospect, rose the dome 
of St. Paul's. 

The Bankside by night was a far less prosaic place 
than it had seemed by daylight. The darkness hid the 
details of the unromantic brickwork, and hid, too, all 
that was unlovely in the hoardings round the cleared 
spaces. We passed a watchman in his box hard by 
Cardinal Cap Alley, but there was not another person 
to be seen in the roadway, and except for the occasional 
rattle of a train, crossing one of the^bridges, we could 
hear nothing but the washing of the tide against the 
Bank or about the hulls of the vessels that were moored 
beside it. The masts of the barges and their spars, 
draped with the partly furled sails, rose dimly and 
picturesquely between us and the dark and shadowy 
buildings on the opposite shore. 

We revisited the site of the Bear Garden and traversed 
the whole lengths of Bose Alley and Horseshoe Alley. 
In this last we lingered for some time. 

" There is at the Museum a map of the Bankside 
as it existed in James I's time," said Mr. Fairfield, as 
we stood about half-way down, " and it shows that there 
was just the same odd angle here then as we see now 
before us. I've been thinking, sir, that Shakespeare 
must have come along this alley many a time. His 
theatre was, as you know, only a few yards south-east 
of the bottom of it. Pennant says that Dick Burbage 
was his favourite actor, and that Condell and Hemmings 
were his intimate friends. Pennant knew they were 



58 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

his theatrical colleagues and they edited the first folio 
edition of his plays. I daresay he knew that he called 
them his ' fellowes ' in his will, and left them one pound 
six and eightpence apiece to buy them rings. Shake- 
speare and Burbage and those two others must have 
often come along this pathway together. One has a 
general notion of how men dressed at that time ; and 
I don't think it's very hard to picture the four of them 
passing along here, from the Globe to the Falcon — 
or to the river anyway. This was the short cut : there 
were stairs, you know — Horseshoe Alley Stairs — opposite 
the river end. There was no more direct way." 

Standing there in the darkness, and with the imagina- 
tion quickened by this assurance, it was not difficult for 
one's fancy to raise a dim and shadowy picture of the 
four Elizabethans clattering by, in high spirits because 
the day's work was over and the conviviality of the 
Falcon was close at hand. 

" There was an alley called Bearsfoot Alley between 
Horseshoe Alley and the Bankend in James I's time," 
said my client, when at length we had returned to the 
embankment ; " it is shown on Eocque's plan, but there 
is no trace of it now. I searched very carefully the other 
morning." 

" Bearsfoot — that's a queer name ! " 

" It was a flower. I came across it in Bacon's essay 
on gardens. I looked it up in an old herbal ; it's what 
we poetically call ' the stinking hellebore '." 

Bearsfoot Alley was undoubtedly gone. Between 
Horseshoe Alley and the Anchor Tavern, which occu- 
pies the angle that is formed by the juncture of Bank- 
side and Bankend, there was an unbroken line of brick 
and mortar. The Anchor looked very comfortable and 
cosy that night. 

" There was nothing I looked forward to more, when 
I first left home, than seeing your English inns," said my 
companion ; " one had read so much about them. Not 
only in Dickens ; though they are more attractive in his 



THE BANKSIDE REVISITED 59 

books than in any others. We have nothing like them 
in the States, "When I used to read about the Saracen's 
Head at Towcester, where Mr. Pickwick and Bob 
Sawyer and Ben Allen put up that wet night, when 
they were on their way back after seeing old Winkle 
at Birmingham, or about the Maypole at Chigwell, in 
' Barnaby Eudge,' or that inn where they put Mr. Lorry 
into the Concord room, when he travelled to Dover to 
meet Miss Manette and her father after his release 
from the Bastille, I used to feel a longing to see the old 
places that was almost painful. The custom of giving 
each of the principal rooms a name was very quaint, 
and it seems to have survived down to the coming of 
the railroad — Mr. Pickwick's room in the Saracen's 
Head was called the Sun. Miss Hardcastle mentions 
three names in common use in Goldsmith's time — the 
Lamb, the Lion, and the Angel. It must have been 
a very old custom," continued Mr. Fairfield, as we 
stood at the edge of the Bank, gazing at the Anchor 
Tavern. Mistress Quickly speaks of her Dolphin- 
chamber, and when Prince Henry and Poins play 
their practical joke on Francis the drawer at the 
Boar's Head, two rooms are mentioned, the Half- 
moon and the Pomegranate ; and in ' Measure for 
Measure ' there is a reference to another room, the 
Bunch of Grapes." 

"Did our inns come up to your expectations?" I 
asked. 

" My expectations were not very high ; for I re- 
membered how badly Dickens in the ' Uncommercial 
Traveller ' spoke of the taverns as they were after the 
coaches had been taken off the roads; and on the 
whole I was not at all disappointed. So far as the look 
of the places went, they even exceeded my expectations. 
If we had not just dined, I don't think I could resist 
the temptation of seeing the inside of that cosy little 
house in front of us. Not that one had much to drink," 
he added with some earnestness. 



60 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

" That was a big flask," I hinted, ** and we nearly 
emptied it." 

" I am very glad you Hked it," was his genial answer. 
He seemed to speak in good faith ; and this made the 
innuendo that lay behind his words — the suggestion 
that I was chiefly responsible for the emptying of the 
fiasco — the more hard to bear. 

" I daresay they draw an excellent tap of lemonade," 
I suggested, remembering the scene in "White Hart 
Yard. 

" Very likely ! very likely ! — you must try it some day," 
said Mr. Fairfield, leading the way past the tavern and 
along Bankend. 

The railway arch, which forms the approach to Clink 
Street yawned before us like the mouth of some great 
cavern. The light in Shakespeare's old street was so 
defective that all the sordid features of the architecture 
were hidden from us. We paused when we came to 
the little dock. The tide was high and the water 
seemed almost within arm's reach. The river looked 
very solemn, as seen through the narrow cleft between 
the tall warehouses. 

" This dock was here in Shakespeare's time," remarked 
my friend complacently. 

" I could not resist the temptation of going round 
the church again last time I was here," he said, when 
we were standing before the west front of St. Saviour's, 
" and a glorious place it is. I think Shakespeare 
must have been in it. It stands to reason, that if 
he was in London or anywhere near it, when they 
buried his brother, he would go to the funeral. The 
register says that Edmund Shakespeare, a player, was 
buried in the church with a forenoon knell of the great 
bell. I think Shakespeare must have paid for that." 

" Beaumont and Fletcher are buried here, I think." 

" Oh, yes, and Massinger too. He lived on the Bank, 
and the player folk followed his body to the church. 
Can you read him — and Beaumont and Fletcher? " 



THE BANKSIDE REVISITED 61 

I nodded. 

" And Ben Jonson ? " 

" With difficulty — extreme difficulty. He moves in 
a wide sea of glue — Tennyson said that." 

Mr. Fairfield could appreciate such a happy hit as 
this. 

" Could you tell a scene from Beaumont and Fletcher 
from a scene from Shakespeare, if the two scenes were 
both unknown to you, and you were put to the test ? " 
he asked, after he had rolled the sweet morsel under his 
tongue. 

I shook my head. " I doubt whether most of the 
glib gentlemen, who have written so feelingly about 
Shakespeare's immense superiority, could pass through 
that ordeal successfully," I ventured to remark. 

Mr. Fairfield grinned. " When I go home, I mean 
to study Lamb's ' Specimens '. If anything will teach 
me how to distinguish Shakespeare's work, they will." 
He registered this virtuous resolution earnestly, but 
without enthusiasm. 

We turned back at the foot of the steps leading up 
to the Borough High Street, and retraced our way to 
Bankend. 

" I suppose it was somewhere behind there," said my 
client, pointing towards the brewery, " that Dr. Johnson 
was to be seen in his full glory as one of Thrale's exe- 
cutors. Do you remember how he bustled about with 
an inkhorn and pen in his buttonhole, when the sale of 
the concern was going forward ? That was when he 
said they were not there to sell a parcel of boilers and 
vats, but the potentiality of growing rich beyond the 
dreams of avarice." 

" Oh, yes, I remember ! and we can't be far off 
Goldsmith's burrow," I struck in, not unwilling to air 
my knowledge of the neighbourhood. " He practised 
as a physician here. It is quite on the cards that he 
visited some of those small houses that you found be- 
hind Moss Alley." 



62 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

" I hope he did for the inhabitants' sake. I daresay 
he was quite as good a doctor as most of his rivals, and 
I'm sure he never took a fee unless the patient could 
afford to pay it." 

" When you brought me here that Saturday after- 
noon," began Mr. Fairfield, as we came to the mouth 
of Horseshoe Alley, and he stopped to gaze down it once 
more, " when you first brought me here, the difference 
between the place as it now is and as it was 300 
years ago, rather staggered me. The connexion between 
the two seemed too vague for a man to take hold of. 
But when one gets to know the place better, there's a 
certain charm about that vagueness — it leaves room for 
the play of one's fancy. We have here in these alleys 
and passages the very paths by which Shakespeare 
made his way to and fro, and I'm not at all sure they 
don't bring one as near to him in imagination as if 
we still had the very buildings associated with him — 
his house, or his theatre, or the tavern where he met 
his friends." 

I was disposed to agree, but I thought that my friend 
was forgetting how much more than the lanes and alleys 
still remained to recall to us the Bankside of 300 
years ago. 

" After all," I said, " there is a great deal here which 
has come down to us from Shakespeare's time. First 
and foremost, there is the river itself, running in its old 
channel ; then there's the Bank itself ; and there's the 
church ; and there's that dock, too — though I think it 
was bigger once," I added, by way of afterthought. 

We had been moving forward while we talked thus, 
and had reached Southwark Bridge. We passed under 
the brick archway that spans the road, and stood at the 
top of the stairs leading down to the river. The tide 
was so high that the water was only a few feet below 
the level of the Bank. Immediately west of Southwark 
Bridge a large square platform, used no doubt foi. load- 
ing or unloading the riverside craft, juts out over the 



THE BANKSIDE REVISITED 63 

water. There was no one about to interfere with us, 
so we stepped down on to this platform and moved for- 
ward to the edge of it. For a time we stood silent, 
leaning our arms on its wooden railing. In the water 
below there was no movement perceptible ; in that dim 
light it stretched before us like some vast lake. Close 
on our right was the south arch of Southwark Bridge, and 
through it we could see the railway bridge just beyond, 
and at its northern end the variegated lights of Cannon 
Street Station. Through the same southern arch, and 
under and beyond the railway bridge, the eye could 
trace a shadowy something, stretching across the river ; 
and from the stationary lights above it, and the swiftly 
moving lights that crossed to and fro between them, we 
knew that it was London Bridge. The moon was ob- 
scured for the time being. On the farther side of the 
dark arch on our right, lay a fleet of lighters, extending 
from the Bank far into the stream, and just discernible 
in the dim shadow. 

On the Middlesex side there was scarcely a light vis- 
ible between the bridge beside us and the lights of far 
distant Blackfriars. There seemed to be a faint mist 
lying over the water, so thin as to be almost invisible, 
but sufficient to lend a pearliness to the atmosphere. 
Gazing through this to the Middlesex shore, we could 
trace a blurred and irregular outline, high up against 
the distant sky, which we knew must be the roofs of 
the waterside buildings ; but all between this and the 
dark water was shadow and mystery. In one place the 
outline was broken ; and there, so vaporous and so like 
in colour to the sky behind it that at one moment the 
eye caught its shape distinctly, and a moment later 
looked for it in vain, towered the great dome. 

There really was some movement in the full river ; 
for it lapped the stairs beside us, and broke over them 
foaming. It played among the lighters, and now and 
again there was a groaning and creaking, as one of them 
strained upon her moorings. Across the railway bridge, 



64 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

an occasional train puffed and laboured. Except for these 
sounds, and the broken fragments of talk or laughter 
that were wafted down to us from the top of the bridge 
far above, there was nothing to disturb the perfect still- 
ness of the night. 

" Can things have looked very different in Shakes- 
peare's time ? " asked Mr. Fairfield suddenly — " I mean 
at night." 

I pondered for awhile over this question. 

" I don't think the buildings on the opposite shore 
can have been so high as they are now," I began with 
some diffidence. " The city was built of wood chiefly, 
and the roofs were thatch or tiles. The houses were no 
doubt crowded together — one climbing up the side of 
another. You must have seen in old towns abroad the 
sort of jumble I mean. There were, no doubt, wharves 
and such-like on the waterside, but the tenants lived on 
the premises, so the upper windows would be lighted 
up. You would not have that wall of darkness that 
we see before us — at all events, not till the people had 
gone to bed. The taverns at any rate would be lighted 
up at this time of night, though folks kept early hours 
then compared with us." 

" True," said my client, " Falstaff speaks of having 
heard the chimes at midnight, as if that was very late." 

" Then, of course, there was old St. Paul's instead of 
the present cathedral. The tall steeple was burnt down 
a little before Shakespeare's time, but the body of the 
cathedral would still be the most prominent object 
from Bankside ; it would show high above all the 
surrounding buildings." 

I paused, and we both stood gazing across the river, 
each endeavouring to picture that old London of Eliza- 
beth. 

" And there wouldn't be this dead silence," I re- 
sumed. " The river was the great highway in those 
times, and I don't suppose the traffic altogether stopped 
at nightfall. And there's another thing : there must 



THE BANKSIDE REVISITED 65 

have been many taverns on the waterside, and I feel 
sure that in those days there was a great deal of singing 
wherever men met together to make merry. Master 
Slender, you will recollect, had his book of songs and 
sonnets." 

" You English were great singers down to a compar- 
atively recent date ; Thackeray says somewhere that 
in the time of George IV all England sounded with 
choruses." 

" I think the practice came down from very early 
days. I had Walton in mind when I spoke just now ; 
I dip into him pretty often. Whenever he refers to a 
tavern he speaks of singing there ; and if the contem- 
plative Izaak was wont to uplift his voice in taverns as 
a matter of course, you may be sure his noisier contem- 
poraries lifted up theirs pretty freely. If at this moment, 
we two were looking across the Thames of Shakespeare's 
day, I think we should hear some songs." 

" What would they be ? " 

This was a poser ; but as it was not often that Mr. 
Fairfield appealed to me for information on a literary 
topic, I endeavoured to rise to the occasion. 

''I think they sang catches and roundelays," I 
answered diplomatically, but after an interval of reflec- 
tion I ventured to become more explicit. " Walton 
mentions many songs, but some of them were made 
after Shakespeare's death. He speaks of ' Old Eose '. 
It was, I believe, popular for many years — ' Sing old 
Eose and burn the bellows,' was the full title. That 
was a very old song even in Walton's time. Then 
there were the popular songs of the day — ' Come live 
with me and be my love,' for instance, which Sir Hugh 
Evans sings in the ' Merry Wives,' and which Walton 
calls ' the smooth song which was made by Kit Mar- 
lowe ' — or Nash's ' The spring, the sweet spring ' " 

" I know that song," interposed my companion ; "it's 
in the ' Golden Treasury '." 

" Perhaps they sang Ben Jonson's * Drink to me only 
5 



66 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

with thine eyes,' though the tune which we know wasn't 
written until long afterwards ; or ' Charis, her triumph,' " 
I continued, " and then there were Shakespeare's own 
songs. ' It was a lover and his lass,' and ' O, Mistress 
mine,' must have been popular with his contemporaries. 
And besides all these, there were some of the old English 
songs that we still hear in every drawing-room " 

" ' Barbara Allen,' for instance," broke in Mr. Fairfield 
once again; "that was a very old song in Pepys' 
day. Knipp sang it to him ; he calls it ' Barbary 
Allen'. I daresay Shakespeare sang it, and I've no 
doubt it was one of Goldsmith's favourites. He men- 
tions the ' Cruelty of Barbara Allen ' in the ' Vicar of 
Wakefield,' as one of the songs that neighbour Flam- 
borough used to sing." 

" This is very interesting," he continued, as he settled 
himself more comfortably against the barrier at the 
edge of the platform, and lit a fresh cigar, " for our boys 
and girls sing those old songs as much as yours do. 
Proceed, man of law ! We have before us a wooden 
city, thatched or tiled, and dominated by a Gothic 
cathedral, and there are many taverns in it, and great 
noise of singing comes from them. There would be 
old London Bridge, too, with lights in the houses built 
upon it, and there would be much traffic on the river." 

" Only passenger traffic at night, I think — wherries 
and such-like ; though, perhaps, sometimes a royal 
barge might slip by, conveying a prisoner to the Tower 
— it lies quite near us ; just behind London Bridge, 
yonder." 

" Ah, true ! They took Bacon there by water, so as 
not to make a show of him. That was in the early 
morning, though." 

" In a place like London," I went on, " lots of people 
must have been about after dark. There was only one 
bridge, and if at night they used the river for nothing 
more than to get from one shore to the other, there 
must have been plenty of boats crossing to and fro. I 



THE BANKSIDE REVISITED 67 

daresay there were torches at the stairs, and in some 
of the boats, so the river would be full of lights and 
shadows." 

" The ferrying of people from side to side must have 
been a very important industry," said Mr. Fairfield 
meditatively. " I noticed in the old maps of the Bank- 
side that there were stairs at every few paces, and no 
doubt it was just the same on the other side. The 
watermen had a good time of it in those old days. 
They did the work that the cabmen do now. I wonder 
how they charged." 

" If you went any distance the cost depended, I fancy, 
on whether you took ' Sculls ' or ' Oars '. I noticed the 
other day, in an old almanac for the year 1820 or there- 
abouts, that a wherry with oars cost twice as much as a 
wherry with sculls — it meant two rowers instead of one, 
you see. I doubt if waterside customs altered much be- 
tween Shakespeare's time and the beginning of the last 
century." 

" Now," observed my client, " I understand what 
Lamb meant when he made EUiston reject sculls and 
demand oars for his passage across the Styx ; Elliston's 
dignity would not allow him to travel in the more humble 
way." 

" Shakespeare must often have used the river," I 
went on. " When the players went to Whitehall you 
may be sure they went by water, and I daresay on the 
return journey they put in at the Falcon " 

" That sitting in taverns hour after hom: was a bad 
business," interrupted my companion. "It meant a 
lot of drinking. It was a very bad business." 

"It was, indeed," I answered fervently. I was 
anxious to make it plain to him how firm and un- 
bending my temperance principles were ; but I could 
not refrain from adding, " good for those old taverns, 
though ". 

Mr. Fairfield laughed. " One can't have everything," 
was his comment. " Good for the taverns, no doubt; 



68 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

good, perhaps, for the songs, too," he went on, " If 
they sang while they drank, this must have created a 
demand for songs, and no doubt the demand created 
a supply. Eeally, you almost persuade me that the 
fuddling was a good thing." 

" I don't believe Shakespeare fuddled, but the Fal- 
con must have been a familiar name to him," said I, 
smitten by a flash of memory. "According to Strat- 
ford tradition, he was in his youth a haunter of 
the Falcon at Bidford. They used to show a crab- 
tree near it, under which he is said to have slept for 
thirty-six hours after leaving the tavern. The house is 
still in existence. You have been to Stratford, I suppose." 

"No," he answered laconically; and then after an 
interval he went on : " I'm not sure I want to go there. 
I've heard a good deal about it. It's a show place, and 
so far as I can make out you are pestered and fleeced 
at every turn. I'm afraid my countrymen are partly 
responsible for this." 

" Are things as bad as all that ? I don't recollect be- 
ing fleeced or worried when I was there. Of course the 
townspeople use the Bard as a stalking-horse for push- 
ing their trade, and I daresay a good deal of the local 
homage isn't very disinterested. But that's human 
nature all the world over — ' Great is Diana of the 
Ephesians,' said the craftsmen of Ephesus." 

Mr. Fairfield grunted, and I went on. " The place it- 
self is well worth seeing. I don't believe there is anything 
in England more beautiful than that great church by 
the Avon. And the country round : you would like 
that ; you may travel for miles and hardly come across 
a house that isn't 300 years old, and taverns older than 
Shakespeare's time are as common as blackberries. 
There's Leamington within easy distance too, where 
Mr. Dombey went, and you can go over "Warwick Castle 
as he and his party did." 

Mr. Fairfield laughed as I prolonged the catalogue of 
attractions. " I'll think of it," he said. 



THE BANKSIDE REVISITED 69 

" I can get away for four or five days next week or 
the week after, and I shall be thankful for your com- 
pany, if you will give it me." 

" Thank you! " said my client heartily, " I think I 
will go. At any rate I'll think it over." 

So we talked, leaning over the railing with our eyes 
fixed on the still bosom of the river ; the city looming 
before us, and the lapping of the wavelets and the 
straining of the lighters in our ears. And when, a 
moment or two later, we were both silent, and Mr. 
Fairfield was no doubt thinking over my invitation, a 
faint sound stole across the water. At first it was so 
faint, that I doubted whether it was not fancy. But, 
borne on a warm puff of wind from the north, it grew 
stronger, and we straightened ourselves and looked at 
one another. It was the sound of bells. In some city 
church the ringers were at work, and as the wind blew 
or paused the sound rose or fell. Never rising high, the 
music floated across the river ; and in the silence and 
amid the surroundings in which we stood, it was inex- 
pressibly sweet and moving. 

"We're in luck!" ejaculated my companion; and 
then, as if feeling that such slipshod speech was out of 
place, he went on, his voice thrilling with emotion : 
" The bells of London town : God bless her ! " 

We stood silent, listening to the faint music. The 
wind freshened for a space, and the clash and ripple of 
the peal seemed to fill the air. Then the breeze dropped 
again, and the sound almost died away. But there was 
still a pulsation in our ears, and we caught the notes 
fitfully and as if from a great distance. 

My companion bared his head — 

' ' I feel death rising higher still and higher. 
Within my bosom ; every breath I fetch 
Shuts up my life within a shorter compass. 
And, like the vanishing sound of bells, grows less 
And less each pulse, till it be lost in air." 

Mr. Fairfield's voice sank to a whisper before the 



70 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

last line was reached, and with his eyes fixed upon the 
dark mass crowned by the shadowy dome that in the 
darkness looked so far away, he said once again, " God 
bless her ! " 

POSTSCEIPT 

SHAKESPEARE IN THE WATER MEADOWS 

Halloo ! Halloo ! ye bats that flit 

About the tavern door. 

What lack have ye of Condell's wit, 

Or Hemmings' lusty roar ? 

What lack have I of mirth and wine. 

Or catch and glee in store, 

With all the summer night for mine ; 

And who would ask for more — 

For more — 
And who would ask for more ? 

A perfume of the new-mown hay, 

O'er sedge and runnels borne, 

A vagrant air that stirs to play 

The blossom on the thorn ; 

While, climbing o'er the willow tops, 

A young moon lifts her horn, 

And moaning through the bishop's copse, 

A nightingale forlorn — 

Forlorn — 
A nightingale forlorn. 

My fellows trolling unaware, 
I mingled in your lunes, 
But summer stole among us there 
And drew me forth eftsoons : 
And while her honey-sweets prevail, 
I ask no other boons ; 
No music but the nightingale. 
No lantern but the moon's — 
The moon's — 
No lantern but the moon's. 




H^^^'^n^^■ 



CHAPTEE V 

THE BIRTH-HOUSE AT STEATFORD-ON-AVON 

Befoee parting with Mr. Fairfield on the night when 
we heard the hells across the river, I obtained his 
promise to go with me to Shakespeare's town. It 
was the middle of September before this promise was 
redeemed. 

We both took bicycles — Mr. Fairfield's was a yellow 
article of native manufacture — and as the short journey 
from Leamington to Stratford is slow and tedious, we 
left the railway at Leamington, and after lunching there 
and endeavouring, without success, to find the Royal 
Hotel at which Mr. Dombey put up, we took the road 
to Stratford. This road runs through Warwick, and it 
was difficult to ride in past one mediaeval gateway 
and out past another without making a stay. But 
we had determined that we would pass on to Stratford 
without delay, and leave the investigation of the sur- 
rounding country to a later date ; so we resisted the 
temptations to alight that assailed us on every hand, 
and presently we were in the open country, with the 
West Gate and its neighbour, the picturesque Leycester 
Hospital, behind us. For once Mr. Fairfield had dis- 
carded his frock-coat and tall hat. Clad in grey tweeds 
and a wideawake of the same colour, he was quite at 
home on the yellow bicycle. 

There are two roads from Warwick to Stratford, and 
I took the longer because it ran past Charlecote. Here 
we rested for a while to admire the beautiful Tudor 

71 



72 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

gateway, and a little farther on we stopped again, for 
we espied an iron gate bearing the shield of the Lucys. 

" Ah, there's the ' old coat ' ! " said Mr. Fairfield, much 
interested, and he counted the luces which it bore. 
" Not a dozen of them, though ! " 

Two or three days later we revisited Charlecote, and 
saw in the private chapel the monumental ef&gy of the 
Sir Thomas Lucy of Shakespeare's youth ; and a noble 
gentleman he looked. 

A ride of four miles from Charlecote brought us 
near to Stratford. A line of pollard willows a little to 
our right told us that our road was following the river — 
Shakespeare's Avon — and presently I saw thepointiof a 
spire appear above the distant tree-tops. 

" That is the church," said I. 

Mr. Fairfield answered nothing, but the yellow bicycle 
made a wide ciKve. Then the rider, with his eyes fixed 
on the distant object, steadied himself and rode on at a 
quicker pace. In a minute or two we were crossing the 
bridge that Sir Thomas Clopton built in the fifteenth cen- 
tury, and which Shakespeare must have crossed scores 
of times. We rode over it, a beautiful river picture on 
either hand, and onward into the heart of the town. 

It did not take us long to put up the bicycles and 
make the necessary arrangements for our housing dur- 
ing the excursion. Mr. Fairfield was so much attached 
to the yellow horror, brought from far Chicago, that 
though he had sought to propitiate the ostler, under 
whose charge he had left it, by the gift of half-a-crown, 
and had received many assurances that the machine 
should be well looked after, he quitted the stable with a 
troubled brow ; and more than once he looked back as 
if doubtful whether he could bear to trust his faithful 
steed to the mercy of a stranger. 

I had brought from town no guide-book except a small 
penny itinerarium, written by a local clergyman, which 
I had purchased on the occasion of my former visit ; but 
when, later, the immense trunk of my companion gave 



BIRTH-HOUSE AT STRATFORD 73 

up its contents, I found that they included a perfect 
hbrary of guide-books and works of reference. This 
huge receptacle had not arrived when we were ready to 
sally forth to make our first investigation of Shakes- 
peare's town, and nothing less than a visit to the station, 
where we found it duly stranded, would satisfy its 
owner. He certainly was a little fussy about his per- 
sonal belongings. This business over, Stratford was all 
before us where to choose. 

We made our way down Bother Street, and stopped 
at the end of it to examine the Jubilee fountain and 
clock-tower. 

" Presented by Mr. Childs of Philadelphia," I re- 
marked, anxious that my friend should know of his 
countryman's munificence. 

" So I observe," he answered, almost tartly, and then 
he read aloud one of the inscriptions, " ' Honest water 
which ne'er left man i' the mire '." 

" My guide-book says we ought to drink here," I ob- 
served. This was not strictly true, but what the 
book really said was so delicious, that I wished to prepare 
my companion's mind for it. 

" Why ? " inquired Mr. Fairfield. 

" Because the writer is, I suppose, a teetotaler," I 
answered, and I read aloud, " ' Inscriptions upon its 
four sides tell its story and record our Poet's praises of 
cold water. We shall do better to drink of it rather 
than patronise any of the public-houses which abound 
in the town.' " 

" Shall we, indeed?" remarked Mr. Fairfield, with 
gentle sarcasm. " And does the writer go on to give 
any directions as to how much we are to consume?" 

"No," I answered, consulting the book, "unfortu- 
nately he is silent as to that, but he tells us where we 
are to get our lunch or tea — we are to go to the coffee 
palace and temperance hotel." 

My friend looked incredulous, so I read aloud, " ' If , 
however, we are looking for a place to lunch or have 



74 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

tea, we cannot do better than go to the coffee palace 
and temperance hotel in Bridge Street '". 

Mr. Fairfield listened smiling. " Eeally," he said 
when I had finished, " I feel an uncontrollable desire to 
take a glass of beer." So saying, he made for the tavern 
which stood a few paces in front of us, and in this 
whimsical protest against the guide-book's advice I 
joined him. 

We walked up Windsor Street, and took the first turn- 
ing to the right. This was Henley Street. A little 
way down it, I stopped and pointed without a word to 
the building on the other side of the road. It is un- 
necessary to describe it. All the world knows those 
trim gables and that neat, fresh calimanco-work. 

Mr. Fairfield put on his pince-nez. " Shakespeare's 
birthplace ! " he ejaculated reverently. " But how very 
modern looking ! It's exactly like the cottage in the 
Swiss toy," he went on, a moment later — " the cottage 
from which a little man or little woman comes out 
according to the weather. But it is old — very old ; it 
belonged to Shakespeare and his father before him. 
That at least is certain, and whether " 

Here his reflections were broken by a shrill voice at 
his elbow : " Gi'e me a penny and I'll tell you all about 
Shakespeare," said the voice, in a strong Warwickshire 
accent. 

We looked down. The interruption came from a 
small boy, who was just beginning to repeat his invita- 
tion, when Mr. Fairfield turned on him with a gesture so 
peremptory and a countenance so forbidding that the 
words died on his lips. 

" It's shameful, abominable ! " he protested, as we 
crossed the road. " I had heard that this was common 
here, but I had forgotten it." 

We entered the Birth-house, and paid our sixpences. 
There were not more than half a dozen other visitors. 
The two attendants on the ground-floor pointed out to 
us the chimney-corner in the living room, and other 



BIRTH-HOUSE AT STRATFORD 75 

objects of interest ; then they passed us on to the first- 
floor. There was no hurrying, but it seemed to be 
taken for granted that visitors must be passed on with- 
out delay. We ascended the stairs to the so-called 
Birth-room, that gaunt, low chamber, the Mecca of 
so many pilgrims, which looks all the emptier for the 
few articles of furniture that stand against its walls. 
I had more than once addressed my companion as we 
went over the rooms below, but his answers were so 
brief and his countenance so abstracted that I soon 
relapsed into silence. In the Birth-room he followed 
with, close attention all that the attendant told us, and 
when the exposition was over he stood with a settled 
gloom upon his countenance, as through his pince-nez 
he gazed round the room so slowly that he seemed to 
be taking in every detail of it, foot by foot. 

In the chamber behind the Birth-room is an oil-paint- 
ing, and on each side of it hangs an iron flap. Directly 
these objects caught my friend's eye his gloom vanished. 
"I've read about this portrait," he said, addressing me 
with his usual grave cheerfulness. " What do you think 
of it?" 

" The face certainly bears some resemblance to the 
bust in the church, and the body appears to be well 
nourished," I answered. 

My friend smiled, but a moment later he was listen- 
ing with a gravity that was almost owlish to the attend- 
ant's description of the picture, and of the circumstances 
under which it had been discovered and presented to 
the birth-place trustees. "And every night, sir," said 
the man, addressing Mr. Fairfield, whose rapt interest 
had evidently impressed him, " the picture is locked up 
in that fireproof safe which you see on each side of it." 

The tall grave visitor gazed at the portrait as if he 
were fascinated by it, and slowly nodded his head twice 
or thrice. Everybody thought that he was a connois- 
seur, and that he lacked words in which to express his 
admiration. So, when the attendant next spoke all eyes 
were turned in my friend's direction. 



76 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

"It is considered a very fine work, sir," was the 
man's remark, and he paused for the expert's opinion. 

There was a twinkle in Mr. Fairfield's eyes, as after 
resting upon the left-hand iron flap and passing thence 
across the picture to the flap on the right, they scanned 
for a moment the attendant and the group round him. 

" No doubt a very fine work," he observed, seeing 
that an answer was expected ; " possibly one of the 
masterpieces of Gabriel Varden himself." 

A hum of applause followed ; nobody doubting that 
the locksmith referred to was a painter of high re- 
nown. 

We were not allowed to enter the garden behind the 
house. This was irritating, for the view of it from the 
back windows was inviting, and the guide-book told us 
that it contained a specimen of every English plant 
mentioned in the poet's works. 

"I made a jackass of myself about that picture," 
said Mr. Fairfield apologetically, when we stood in 
Henley Street, after leaving the house ; " it's a silly 
thing and an ill-mannered thing to play upon people. 
But when the man spoke so rapturously about the 
iron safe, and I pictured to myself the house destroyed 
by fire and that wretched picture lying in the ashes 
uninjured, I was so tickled that I forgot myself for 
the moment." 

" Well? " I said, interrogatively, after we had stood 
for some little time gazing at the front of the house. 

My companion received this as an invitation to com- 
municate his impressions. He shook off his reverie and 
squared his shoulders. 

"I'll tell you," he began confidentially 

" You give me a penny and I'll tell you all about 
Shakespeare," interrupted a voice that, though small, 
was not still. 

It was another urchin. My friend started as if he 
had been shot, and an explosive sound, very suggestive 
of the fourth letter of the alphabet, burst from him. 



BIRTH-HOUSE AT STRATFORD 77 

But he checked himself before the sound had formed 
itself into a word and clutching my arm he hurried me 
away. He did not pause until we had turned the 
corner into "Windsor Street. 

" I all but swore before that child — God forgive me ! " 
he gasped, quite breathless with the haste with which 
we had moved. 

" And what did you think of the birthplace ? " I asked, 
as soon as he had regained his composure. 

Mr. Fairfield hesitated for a while, and then burst 
forth with a rapidity of utterance very unlike his usual 
deliberate speech : " I'm glad to have seen it — very 
glad ; but I can't bring my mind to associate Shake- 
speare with it : I can't fancy him spending his boyhood 
and his youth in that dark den at the back, which they 
call the living-room. The outside of the two houses was 
a great surprise to me. I knew what the place looked 
like before it was restored ; I knew they had put dormer 
windows into the sagging old roof ; I knew they had 
restored the front ; but the pictures I had seen of the 
houses as they now are had not in the least prepared 
me for that spick and span front, with the contrast be- 
tween its fresh new rough-cast and its dark beams. I 
was disappointed, and when I said it looked like a toy- 
house I daresay I exaggerated a little. But really, sir, 
the outside is offensively modern. And when you get 
inside the Birth-house, the place, for all its scrupulous 
trimness, is so mean and so dark that you can't think 
of any civilised person living in it, without a sort of pity. 
The upstairs rooms are better, but there is nothing 
venerable about them — nothing suggestive of sixteenth 
century interiors as we generally see them. And 
while we were going over the place I remembered that 
in Mr. Lee's ' Life,' he said that Shakespeare's father 
was fined by the town authorities for having a dirt-heap 
in front of his house. A picture of those lower rooms 
350 years ago, with a stinking muck-heap just under 
the windows, rose in my mind, and it positively de- 



78 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

pressed me to think of Shakespeare living under such 
conditions." 

" Very likely the rooms were quite different in his 
time. Halliwell-Phillipps says that the cellar — which, 
by-the-by, is not shown to visitors — is the only part 
of the house that is unchanged. And apart from this, 
you mustn't look at the sixteenth century with the eyes 
of the twentieth " 

" I know, I know," he interrupted hastily ; " but one 
always thinks of the man Shakespeare as of some great 
natural wonder, something in the open air — something 

like the sea itself, or a mountain " Here he broke 

off, and after a pause he repeated, as if still following 
out his train of thought : — 

' ' Full many a glorious morning have I seen 
Flatter the mountain tops with sovran eye, 
Kissing with golden face the meadows green, 
Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy." 

By this time we had reached the Clopton Bridge, 
and we stopped and drank in the beauty of the pro- 
spect. 

" This, now," resumed my companion, " seems quite 
in harmony with Shakespeare. It's beautiful enough 
to take even the taste of that house out of one's mouth. 
By-the-by, they call it the Birth-house, and everybody 
talks of it as if he really was born there. But is the 
evidence on the point satisfactory? " 

I felt that he was appealing to me in my professional 
capacity, and I considered the question with judicial 
gravity. 

" The evidence, as I understand it, isn't conclusive," 
I answered, after a decent interval of reflection. " That 
is certainly Mr. Lee's opinion. There can be no question 
that the house which adjoins the so-called Birth-house, 
and is now the Museum, was bought by Shakespeare's 
father some eight years before Shakespeare's birth. Un- 
luckily he also bought a house in Greenhill Street, and this 



BIRTH-HOUSE AT STRATFORD 79 

complicates matters. It is also beyond all doubt that 
four years before tie bought the Museum, he was occupy- 
ing a house in Henley Street, and that at the time of his 
death he owned two houses there, one the Birth-house 
and the other the Museum ; but there is nothing con- 
clusive to connect him with the Birth-house at the date 
of the birth ; there is, in fact, no evidence that he was 
living there. After reading Mr. Lee's ' Life ' I looked 
into the matter a little at the British Museum, and I 
came to the conclusion that, though in all probability 
Shakespeare was born in one of the two houses in Hen- 
ley Street, it was impossible to say that one had a better 
claim to the honour than the other." 

" And what about the Birth-room? " 

" I came to the conclusion that the evidence in favour 
of Shakespeare's having been born in that particular 
first-floor room was worth nothing. Halliwell-Phillipps 
proves that so long ago as 1769 it was asserted that 
he was born there ; but that was two hundred years after 
the event. You will find the facts epitomized by Mr. 
Lee," I concluded, 

" I must re-read what he says about the marriage, 
too," said Mr. Fairfield. 

" Shall we stroll to Shottery ? " I asked a few minutes 
later. " It's only a mile distant, and there's plenty of 
time before dinner." 

My friend shook his head. " The birthplace is enough 
for one day," he answered. " Let us get the machines 
and take a little turn outside the town." 

We chose the Evesham Eoad, and presently turned 
down a lane on the left which brought us within sight 
of the river. The shadows were lengthening, and the 
stream with its fringe of willows and the green meadow 
through which it ran looked so beautiful, kissed by the 
golden sun, that we abandoned the bicycles and made 
our way to the bank, and sat there almost in silence 
until the shades of evening gave us warning of the near 
approach of the dinner-hour. 



80 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

For a long time that evening my companion pored 
over Mr. Lee's " Life ". Then he lay back in his chair 
and meditated, the fingers of one lean hand noiselessly 
beating the table before him. At length he looked 
over in my direction. I laid down " The Times," and 
prepared myself for cross-examination. But none fol- 
lowed ; he seemed to be in doubt for a moment as to what 
he should do, and then he walked to the table on which 
his travelling library was arranged, and selecting a 
volume of Shakespeare's plays, he settled himself down 
again and read and meditated until bedtime. 

" I shall bathe in the Avon to-morrow morning," 
he announced when we were parting for the night. 
" Eobin Ostler" — he uttered this Shakespearean name 
with much relish — " Bobin Ostler tells me there is a 
good bathing-place just off the road by which we came 
here, and that it has been used for bathing from time 
immemorial." 

It was rather late in the year, but the weather was 
warm and summer-like, and the thought of bathing in 
Shakespeare's river was not without its fascination. 

" I will join you," said I. 



CHAPTEE VI 

THE HATHAWAY HOUSE AT SHOTTERY 

We found the bathing-place without difficulty the next 
morning, and when we saw it we blessed the town au- 
thorities for the excellent accommodation which they 
had provided. I did not omit to point out to my com- 
panion that there was nothing to pay. A little footpath 
led from the roadway to the riverside. The hedge and 
the long grass beside it were spangled with the heavy 
dewdrops of September, and there was something of an 
autumn freshness in the air. But on the river-bank 
there was nothing to suggest the season of decay. The 
stream lay before us bathed in sunshine, and mirroring 
the green alders and dwarf willows that fringed the 
opposite bank. It was beautiful as a dream. 

" What can it be like in May? " was Mr. Fairfield's 
exclamation. 

We strolled to Shottery after breakfast. The meadow 
paths are not nearly so sylvan as the guide-books would 
lead one to expect. The endless stream of excursionists, 
which has flowed along them throughout spring, summer 
and autumn for so many years has left its mark. 

From the children of Shottery we received more than 
one offer to tell us for the usual consideration all about 
Shakespeare, or to conduct us on the same terms to 
Anne Hathaway's cottage. Mr. Fairfield, ashamed of 
his outburst of yesterday, submitted to this persecution 
more in sorrow than in anger, but his face was as sour 
as vinegar. 

The picturesque thatched building, now divided into 
6 81 



82 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

three, that was once the home of a Hathaway family, is 
easily found, and on payment of sixpence the traveller 
is admitted to the middle dwelling. Once inside, he 
had better for the time being resign himself to the de- 
lusion that it was always separated from the rest of the 
building, and make-believe to believe that when Shake- 
speare was a youth his sweetheart lived in it and was 
courted by her lover there. The young and very pretty 
girl who acted as our guide had no doubt on these points. 
In the downstairs room she drew our attention to various 
articles of household use or ornament as having been 
the property of Anne Hathaway, and with a faint blush 
she pointed out a seat by the fireside as the courting- 
settle. 

" The courting-settle ? " repeated Mr. Fairfield, turn- 
ing to me for information. Probably he thought it was 
some article common in English kitchens, but unknown 
to him. 

" The seat on which Shakespeare courted Mistress 
Anne," I explained. " Haven't you seen the well- 
known picture of this room with the tv/o lovers seated 
there?" 

My friend bent his gaze on the courting-settle, and 
then, with an unmoved countenance, he turned to our 
guide : — 

"When the heart is young, my dear, courting is an 
excellent thing, even on a seat no wider than a knife- 
board." 

He said this with a pleasantry so paternal and benign 
that the girl received it without offence. She looked at 
the settle, and the thought that it certainly was rather 
narrow seemed to strike home. With peals of laughter 
she passed us on to the upper room, which according to 
the local tradition was Anne Hathaway's bedchamber. 
Here we were received by another guide, a female of 
more advanced age. She expounded to us the massive 
wooden bedsteads which are contained in this room and 
the room on the opposite side of the stairway, and pro- 



THE HATHAWAY HOUSE 83 

duced certain other relics of the house's former mistress. 
These ceremonies over, we gazed from one of the small 
windows upon the prospect beyond, while the custodian 
told us of Barnum's effort to buy the cottage and all its 
contents for exhibition in America. 

At any other time, such a narrative as this might have 
set my friend's patriotism on fire, but just then, there 
was no kindling his enthusiasm. From the moment of 
our entry into those upper rooms, his aspect had been 
so suggestive of neuralgia that more than once the good 
woman had put forward a word of sympathy. There 
was trouble in Mr. Fairfield's eyes, and with one hand 
arched above his mouth, he held the intermediate organ 
in a firm grip of thumb and finger. Even my thoughts 
were inclined to wander : I seemed to be carried back 
to my boyhood, and to the hutches where my pet rabbits 
passed their blameless lives. 

At the time of our arrival we were the only visitors, 
but while we were upstairs a brake drove up and dis- 
gorged its passengers. There was a stir and bustle in 
the room below and many ejaculations of admiration 
and wonder reached our ears. The nationality of the 
visitors was beyond all question. I turned to Mr. 
Fairfield and I am afraid I smiled. The faint look 
of annoyance on his face disappeared and he smiled 
broadly. 

"Our people who tour about in companies are not 
always the quietest of folk," he remarked. 

Even as he spoke, another brake rattled up and we 
saw the passengers come streaming towards the cottage 
door. We heard them, too. They were very noisy, 
almost raffish, and in the voices which were shrill and 
piercing was a drawl that I recognized. Undoubtedly 
they were excursionists from some town in the Midlands. 

Mr. Fairfield looked at me this time. " Perhaps we 
may as well get outside," I remarked. 

But this was easier said than done ; for the new-comers 
were beginning to ascend the stairs and they surged 



84 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

up until both bedrooms were uncomfortably crowded. 
We were wedged against the wall of the larger room ; 
so there was nothing for it but to stand still and watch 
the visitors. They had no doubt of the perfect authen- 
ticity of all that the guide told them ; and when a piece 
of material of a yellow hue, most offensive to the eye, 
was produced and declared to be linsey-woolsey of Anne 
Hathaway's own weaving, their emotion did not fall far 
short of rapture. 

" Linsey-woolsey ! Goodness gracious ! " ejaculated 
one lady, as with awe and reverence she handled the 
precious fabric. " And what a peculiar colour," she 
added, addressing a female beside her. The remark was 
true enough in itself, but under the circumstances it 
was comic ; for the speaker's cloak was of the same hue, 
and the material seemed the same. 

"We reached the open air at last, and stayed in the 
garden for a minute or two to examine a stone, which 
was pointed out to us as having been used as a seat by 
Charles Dickens when he visited the cottage. Some of 
the excursionists were on the path near to us, gazing at 
the front of the building. 

" They only show you the middle part," observed the 
lady in the linsey-woolsey cloak, "I guess they live in 
the rest of it." 

Inwardly I " guessed " so too, and I wondered what 
precautions were taken against fire. 

" It would be a pity if the old place were burnt down," 
I remarked as we turned out into the garden. 

" Yes, I suppose it would," said my friend doubtfully, 
and he went on to express a conviction that even in the 
middle part the bedrooms were still slept in. He also 
made a few observations upon the ventilation. 

We hung about the neighbourhood until the brakes 
had driven off, and then we returned to the roadway to 
have a parting look at the old farmhouse, with its roof 
of deep thatch and careless, old-fashioned garden. Can 
all England show a prettier piece of rusticity? Mr. 



THE HATHAWAY HOUSE 85 

Fairfield was gazing at it through his pince-nez, deep in 
thought. 

" A very fitting background for an idyll," I observed. 
*' I can see you are trying to picture Master William 
a-wooing." This I said in malice, for I felt sure my 
companion was doing nothing of the sort. 

" Can you read that?" was his only response, and 
he pointed to one of the chimneys. 

It bore the letters I.H., followed by a date near the 
end of the seventeenth century. 

" I believe it's the date when the place was built," 
quoth he, with evident venom. 

I burst out laughing ; and after a pause he laughed 
too. " Perhaps that is rather too large an order," he 
admitted ; " but how I wish I could prove it ! " 

I took it for granted that the fables to which we had 
been listening inside the house had irritated him, and I 
sought to pour oil on the troubled waters. 

" When I was here last, the cottage was occupied by 
a Mrs. Baker, a very old lady. She was quite a Shake- 
spearean celebrity in these parts, and when she broke her 
leg, the accident and her recovery from it were local 
events of great importance. She claimed to be a de- 
scendant of the Hathaways. When she showed you 
over the place and told you that the pots and pans had 
belonged to Mistress Anne, and that Master William had 
spent most of his early youth courting on that settle, it 
was quite soothing and pleasant. It seemed in accord- 
ance with the fitness of things that the old lady should 
tell you so. I fancy the legends we have just heard 
originated with Mrs. Baker; I daresay you found it 
irritating to listen to them under present circumstances." 

"If Mrs. Baker had chosen to tell the visitors that 
she was Anne Hathaway herself, grown old, I don't sup- 
pose one in a hundred would have doubted her," said 
Mr. Fairfield, smiling. "I did not in the least mind 
what they said inside," he explained, " but your talk- 
ing about an idyll reminded me of all the sickly twaddle 



86 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

I had read about Shakespeare and his connexion with 
this place, and that ruffled up my feathers. Merciful 
powers ! is the story such a pretty one that every scrib- 
bler who prints his impressions of this place must needs 
gush over it ? It makes me sick ! " 

" He was only eighteen," I pleaded, thinking to miti- 
gate my friend's censoriousness. 

"Yes, poor boy, and she was six-and-twenty. Just 
think of what your life would have been if you had got 
into such an entanglement at his age, and had been 
dragooned into marrying a woman eight years your 
senior ; and then try to fancy the sort of wife that Anne 
Hathaway, the daughter of a Shottery farmer and very 
likely in service at Temple Grafton when the marriage 
licence* was obtained, must have seemed to Shakespeare 
when he grew to manhood." 

" That's the story ' on the documents ' as you lawyers 
call it," he resumed. " I can understand one writer or 
another trying to make a prettier thing of it by declaring 
that there had been an earlier marriage according to 
the rites of the old faith, or that there had been a hand- 
fasting, which was the same thing as a marriage. Both 
theories are mere fantastic nonsense ; but I can under- 
stand anyone who believes in them, treating the affair 
as a love idyll. But how any man who accepts the 
facts without such an explanation can write sentimental 
twaddle about its beauty and freshness passes my com- 
prehension. And the worst of it is," he added, growing 
cooler but speaking with deep vexation, "the chief 
offenders are my own countrymen." 

This terrific outburst had barely come to an end when 
another brake full of excursionists drove up, and a little 
group of children, anxious to earn an honest penny, 
collected about it. Mr. Fairfield seized my arm as if 
eager to shake the dust of Shottery from his feet, and 
we walked back to Stratford. We dawdled for a while 
in its clean, bright streets, and made a few purchases at 
one of the shops devoted to the sale of Shakespearean 



THE HATHAWAY HOUSE 87 

relics and souvenirs. He chose a plaque emblazoned 
with the arms of England and the arms of Shakespeare, 
and bearing a well-known quotation from " Hamlet ". 
We spent the rest of the day on our bicycles. 

After dinner that evening, as I sat skimming through 
some papers that had been forwarded to me from Gray's 
Inn, I saw my companion unwrap his purchase and be- 
gin to examine it with much complacency, A moment 
later I was startled by a sudden ejaculation ; and, look- 
ing up, I saw him make a hasty dart at the side-table 
where the books lay. There was aflutter of leaves, and 
then arose a wail of wrath and lamentation. 

" The sordid wretches can't even print him correctly ! 
They've actually put ' one ' instead of ' man ' . Listen 
to this ! " And he read out from the plaque : — 

" This above all : to thine own self be true. 
And it must follow, as the night the day, 
Thou canst not then be false to anyowe ! " 

Next morning we made for the church. When we 
reached the gate of the graveyard, it was plain from the 
empty vehicles drawn up near it that we had once more 
fallen in with a horde of excursionists, and when we had 
walked down the beautiful lime avenue that leads to the 
north door we came upon them. The porch was full of 
these gadflies, and the official in a long cassock who 
was selling tickets of admission had a busy time of it. 
The place was all a-hum like a railway booking-office 
in August. Your ordinary excursionist cannot take a 
ticket and receive his change without hubbub. 

For a few minutes Mr. Fairfield eyed the scene in 
silence. Then, in silence, we both turned and retraced 
our steps along the avenue. 

" We can try again some other day," he said, as we 
passed out of the churchyard. " Is that business legal ?" 

" Not knowing — can't say," was my answer. " When 
I was last here they were selling crosses and other little 
matters made of old wood taken out during the restora- 
tions." 



88 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

" What becomes of all those sixpences ? " 

" They go to repair the church and pay an additional 
curate. I saw this in one of your guide-books last 
night." 

" Considering what Stratford gets out of Shakespeare 
in other ways, I think it might pay for its own spiritual 
comforters," was Mr. Fairfield's comment. 

We walked up Old Town ; past Hall's Croft, where 
once, according to Stratford tradition, dwelt Shake- 
speare's son-in-law, and on into Church Street. 

" We had better inspect the site of New Place," I 
suggested, and we stopped for a moment while I con- 
sulted my guide-book. 

" Give me a penny and I'll tell you all about Shake- 
speare," sounded in our ears once more. The speaker 
was a loutish youth of about seventeen, with furtive and 
shifty eyes. He spoke with a strong Warwickshire 
accent, but he looked like the typical London pickpocket. 
Without waiting for an answer he proceeded to give us 
a sample of his wares : — 

' ' Shakespeare stole a deer 

Out of Charlecote Park ; 

He gave it to the poor people. 

He saw some men a-ploughin' on Monday ; 

He asked them why they was ploughin' on Sunday ; 

They said it wasn't Sunday it was Monday — " 

Our persecutor proceeded thus far in a sort of sing-song, 
relieved once or twice by a stamp of the foot ; then he 
broke off and looked up into our faces with a leer of in- 
tense enjoyment. 

" He was droonk, y'e knoo," he explained. 

"Who taught you to cadge like this?" demanded 
Mr. Fairfield. 

The youth leered again. " I'm savin' money for the 
fair." 

" It's in the Warwickshire blood, I suppose," said my 
companion, as soon as we had left the lout behind. 
" When Scott visited Kenilworth, three or four years 



THE HATHAWAY HOUSE 89 

before his death, he complained that the children were 
beggars. There was evidently a line missing in that 
trash," he went on ; " something ought to follow ' He 
gave it to the poor people ' ; and why on earth did the 
boy stamp his foot ? It seemed intended to emphasize 
the cadence." 

I was not able to throw any light on this problem, 

"And this is the site of New Place," said Mr. Fair- 
field, as we stood in Chapel Street with our backs to 
the Falcon Hotel and looked through the railings on 
the green space at the corner of Chapel Lane. 

"Yes," I answered, " that at least is certain. The 
brick-work with wire netting over it, that you see just 
in front, is shown as part of the foundations of the 
house. There are two wells too. "We can go inside the 
enclosure if we take a ticket for the museum. It's con- 
tained on the ground-floor of that house on our left — 
it's the house in which Nash, who married Shakespeare's 
granddaughter, Elizabeth Hall, once lived. Halliwell- 
Phillipps says that somewhere in the roof is a scantlet 
of one of the gables that belonged to Shakespeare's 
house. Behind this enclosure is the site of his great 
garden. There's no charge for admittance." 

" The entrance I take it is round the corner," said 
Mr. Fairfield, ignoring my suggestion that we should 
visit the museum, and making for Chapel Lane. 

In that fair green pleasaunce there were no noisy 
excursionists or begging children to come between us 
and our thoughts of its former master. Nowhere else 
in Stratford, except perhaps on the river walk in the 
churchyard, does one seem to get so near to him. For 
a long time we sauntered about the smooth lawns, 
rarely speaking to one another. 

" Is the museum worth seeing ? " asked my companion, 
when at length we had dropped on to a seat. 

"I don't know that it is; but if you pay your six- 
pence you can inspect the foundations which we saw 
from the road and drink from one of the wells." 



90 JRAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

" What about the foundations — are they genuine? " 

" If Halhwell-Phinipps tells us that they are the 
foundations of Shakespeare's New Place I suppose we 
ought to accept the statement. But as we are also told 
that some time before the end of 1702 the house was 
pulled down and another built on the site, it is difficult 
to feel quite sure. The guide-books, of course, have no 
doubts. There seems to have been a bay window at 
the back. According to them, this must have belonged 
to Shakespeare's study, and he wrote the ' Tempest ' in 
that room. The museum is quite a little place," I went 
on, " but there's a huge table in it, that came from the 
Falcon over the way. It was used for playing shuffle- 
board." 

" Shakespeare's favourite game, of course," sneered 
my companion. 

" To the best of my belief," I answered, " it wasn't 
known a few years ago that in his day there was no 
Falcon tavern, and I'm afraid there was, until quite 
lately, a firm and cherished tradition in Stratford that 
he spent his evenings there." 

" Of course, of course, — 'he was droonk, y'eknoo,' " 
retorted my client, with a contemptuous imitation of our 
last beggar. " Give Stratford the existence of a tavern 
anywhere near New Place, and Stratford will give you 
a fine, old, crusted tradition that he was always in it. 
You may bet your bottom dollar on that, sir. They've 
a queer way here of showing the reverence they talk so 
big about." 

"It is a queer business," said I, "but aren't the 
visitors most to blame ? " 

" For encouraging it, or even enduring it, you mean. 
Oh, yes, Stratford wouldn't put it forward if it didn't 
pay." My friend uttered this with a sniff of contempt, 
which he followed by a muttered quotation, whereof I 
caught the words, " bisson conspectuities," and no more. 

" The Guild Chapel was herein Shakespeare's time," 
he said, pointing to it as soon as he had cooled down. 



THE HATHAWAY HOUSE 91 

" No doubt of that, and he must have seen it every 
time he went in or out of his house. HaUiwell-PhiUipps 
says the bell must have been among the latest sounds 
that fell upon his ears during the last night that he spent 
on earth — that it may have been the last sound he 
heard." 

Mr. Fairfield pondered, his eyes fixed upon the chapel 
tower. " That" is very suggestive," he said, almost 
under his breath — 

" And now his grief may be compared well, 
To one sore sick, that hears the passing-bell" . 

" But have we still the same bell? " he inquired sus- 
piciously, a moment later. 

" From what HaUiwell-PhiUipps goes on to say, it is 
clear it has been recast." 

" It's the same with everything in Stratford." There 
was no little vindictiveness in my friend's voice as he 
uttered this wail. 

" It's pleasanter to think of him here than in Henley 
Street." "When Mr. Fairfield said this, we had left the 
garden, and were once more standing in Chapel Street, 
peering down at the wire coverings of the foundations 
below us. " No muck-heap in front of New Place, sir ! " 

I tried, I really did try, to hold my tongue, but the 
temptation to destroy this fond illusion was too much 
for me. 

" HaUiwell-PhiUipps says a most loathsome, fetid 
ditch ran alongside of the house." 

"I don't believe it." 

" I'm afraid he proves it ; and, after all, is it unlikely ? 
No one who lived in a little place like this 300 years ago 
could escape something of the kind. Why, even less 
than 150 years ago Garrick described Stratford as the 
most dirty, wretched-looking town in the kingdom." 

" I will not believe it, sir ! " And Mr. Fairfield's lips 
were so tightly set that I dropped the subject. 



92 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

After this we moved on to the High Street and in- 
spected the exterior of the Harvard House. 

" It must have been thought a fine place when it was 
built," said my client, as he scanned the carved wood- 
work. " I daresay Shakespeare stopped for a moment 
more than once to watch the builders at work." 

" Would you care," I asked, " to see the Washington 
Irving room at the Red Horse — the room he mentions 
in the ' Sketch Book ' ? They show you the chair in 
which he sat and the poker he speaks of. They call it 
Geoffery Crayon's sceptre." 

" I remember something about it," was the answer. 
" No, I don't want to see the place. Don't think I 
sniff at the ' Sketch Book ' or at Washington Irving 
either. But — but — " here for the first time in my 
experience he hesitated, as if at a loss for words to ex- 
press his meaning. Then with a rush he explained 
himself. " It's natural enough for the landlord to raise 
a shrine to him — that's all in the way of business — but 
this, sir, is Shakespeare's town, and to burn incense to 
Washington Irving here, seems to me a foolish busi- 
ness." 

We devoted the rest of that day to scouring the country 
round Stratford, and in the evening my fellow-pilgrim 
buried himself in a volume of the Bard. 

" Mr. Lee says that money was worth eight times its 
present value in Shakespeare's day," said he, turning to 
me and waiting for an answer. 

" Yes, that's my recollection of what he says, and I 
feel sure that Halliwell-Phillipps says it was worth 
even more." 

We had been discussing Shakespeare's fortune in the 
New Place Gardens that morning, and the comparative 
values of money then and now had been referred to. 

" Then how do you account for the charges in the 
tavern bill which Poins stole out of Falstaff's pocket ? 
No doubt the items were those current at the time the 
play was written. It isn't likely that Shakespeare 



THE HATHAWAY HOUSE 93 

bothered himself to quote prices as they were in Henry 
IV's time." 

" Even if he did, that wouldn't get rid of your diffi- 
culty," said I, who had a pretty clear recollection of 
those tavern items; "money was still more valuable 
then." 

"It is certainly very odd," and Mr. Fairfield read 
out the bill of charges : — 

" Item, a Capon 2/2. 

Item, Sauce 4d. 

Item, Sack, 2 gallons 5/8. 

Item, Anchovies and sack after supper 2/6. 

Item, Bread ^d." 

"We took a turn out of doors that night before going 
to bed. Our stroll led us past the site of New Place 
and near the church. In the forlorn hope of finding 
the churchyard open we tried the wicket. It was un- 
fastened, and we were able to ramble about and make 
such an examination of the exterior of the vast building 
as the darkness permitted. We came at length to the 
terrace walk above the river, but the prospect which is 
so beautiful by day was disappointing then. The stream 
lay below us, almost motionless and clearly distinguish- 
able, but the town-meadows on the other side were 
hidden by a thick bank of mist, solid to the eye as a 
rampart of cotton wool, which starting from the water- 
line, rose to a height of twelve feet or thereabouts. It 
obliterated all objects behind it, while above it the trees 
rose clear and distinct against the sky. I shivered as I 
gazed. 

" * You need not regard me, sir ; I am fever-proof like- 
wise agur,' " quoted Mr. Fairfield jovially, as he fumbled 
at one of the pockets of his light overcoat. I saw his 
arm rise. Some white body passed through the air and 
fell with a splash into the middle of the river. 

" It's that plaque," he observed. " I thought I might 
get a chance of disposing of it to-night. And now, sir, 
whereabouts in the chancel is Shakespeare's grave ? " 



94 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

We strolled up to the church and stood on the site of 
the bone-house, which the poet had in his mind when 
he framed the lines which are cut upon his gravestone. 

" There," said I, pointing to the last but one of the 
north windows, " is the monument — and the grave is a 
little beyond." 

" We might have a look at the Birth-house before 
turning in," said my companion, when we were once 
more in Chapel Street. "It seems hard that a man 
can't look at the place by day, because it's infested by 
a horde of young bandits, itching to tell him that 
Shakespeare got drunk. I wonder how that vile screed 
goes on ! " 

We lingered awhile before the two houses in Henley 
Street, and then made our way into Guild Street, and 
through the iron gate peered across the garden behind 
them. 

There were tendrils of young ivy showing over the 
top of the wall. Mr. Fairfield plucked a few leaves and 
placed them in his pocket-book. 



CHAPTEE VII 

MR. FAIRFIELD LEARNS "ALL ABOUT SHAKESPEARE " 

We made a longer stay in Stratford than we had 
originally intended. The country round was so beauti- 
ful and the roads were so good that we were loth to 
bring our holiday to an end. 

Shakespeare's town is a convenient centre for many 
excursions. We rode over to Warwick several times. 
The Castle and the Leycester Hospital were not places 
to be inspected in a hurry ; and out of the town itself 
were Guy's Cliff and the Saxon mill just beyond it. 
Charlecote, too, could not be passed over ; Worcester 
and Coventry were within riding distance, and Evesham 
was close at hand. 

In that part of England the very names upon the 
finger-posts bear a charm. Hampton-Lucy, Temple- 
Grafton, Wilmcote, Clifford-Chambers, Henley-in-Arden 
fall upon the ear like music, and the words " To Strat- 
ford " make a man thrill, no matter how often he may 
come upon them. 

We visited nearly all of the eight villages mentioned in 
the rhyme that Stratford tradition ascribes to Shake- 
speare. Temple-Graf ton, the " hungry Grafton " of this 
rhyme, had a mournful interest to the American citizen, 
for he had a conviction that the marriage which he 
thought so unfortunate was celebrated there. The 
church is modern, and the registers do not go back so 
far as Shakespeare's time. 

We rode to Bidford and fed the fish from the quaint 
old bridge, which, it is said, the monks built. The Fal- 
con still remains, but it is no longer a tavern. We did 

95 



96 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

not attempt to find the spot where the crab-tree grew, 
under which, according to Stratford tradition, Shake- 
speare slept for so many hours. 

At Cleeve Pryor, that hes not far from Bidford, the 
bank of the Avon rises to a bold cliff. Below is the old 
mill, and the tourist who crosses the weir comes upon 
a ruined lock almost hidden in vegetation. " ' Earth 
has not anything to show more fair,' " was Mr. Fair- 
field's comment. 

We saw, too, the old mill at Stratford, and crossed 
the footbridge that leads to the town-meadows, plucking 
as we went the water forget-me-nots which grow by the 
weir. 

We lunched in many an old inn that was standing 
when Shakespeare was a boy, and had many a gossip 
with the simple, cordial folk that kept them ; but wher- 
ever we went nothing that we heard about him bore any 
reference to his fame as a writer. 

" If I didn't read a piece every night," said Mr. 
Fairfield as we rode towards Stratford, after one 
of these gossips, " I verily beHeve I should go back to 
London with a vague general notion that Shakespeare 
wrote some plays, and with a strong but unaccountable 
conviction that he was a person to be reverenced, firstly, 
because he was born and died at Stratford, and, secondly, 
because he stole deer, got drunk, slept like a hog, 
and married Anne Hathaway " 

He broke off to watch the evolutions of the bats, 
which were flying about us in the gathering twilight, 
and at the same moment, a cockchafer blundered past, 
within an inch of his nose. 

" What's that ? " he asked, almost pulling up ; " that 
humming thing ! " 

" A cockchafer." 

" Is that a scaly beast ? " 

" To the best of my belief it has a full suit of armour." 

" Bless my soul ! " was his ejaculation ; and he gazed 
about him in a sort of rapture. 



" ALL ABOUT SHAKESPEARE " 97 

"When I caught sight of those bats," he explained, 
" I was reminded of a hne of Ben Jonson's, and the 
next instant that insect nearly flew into my face. Now, 
Ben mentions him in the very next line, but I never 
knew what he meant — 

The giddy flitter-mice with leather wings ! 
The scaly beetles with their habergeons, 
That make a humming murmur as they fly ! 

Isn't it pleasant to think of old Ben riding along a 
country lane some fine evening, 300 years ago, and see- 
ing the bats and the cockchafers, just as we see them 
now — and making verses on them ? I must remember 
to make a note of this." 

"I've been thinking of an old song Garrick wrote 
after the Stratford Jubilee," he burst out, a little later. 
" It's poor stuff, but its lyrical, and there's a pretty 
line in it about Shakespeare — 

Old Ben, Thomas Otway^ John Dryden, 

And half a score more we take pride in ; 

Of famous Will Congreve we boast, too, the skilly 

But the Will of all Wills was the Warwickshire Will : 

Warwickshire Will, 

Matchless still ; 
For the Will of all Wills was the Warwickshire Will." 

My friend shook his head over the guide-book asser- 
tion that the Arden House at Wilmcote was the home 
of Shakespeare's mother. But when we journeyed 
thither, the kindness of its occupants and the charm of 
the old house itself, vanquished him ; and he waxed en- 
thusiastic over all about it, from the ancient oven in the 
outbuildings to the great cat Dick, who was sunning 
himself on a distant wall, and who in response to his 
master's call came racing up to us like a dog. 

In Stratford itself we saw the " Droeshout " and Ely 
Palace portraits — the one in the picture gallery of the 
Memorial buildings, and the other in the librarian's 
room above the Birth-place Museum. Neither was pro- 
tected by a fire-proof safe. 
7 



98 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

As we studied the " Droeshout," we wondered 
whether that grave and comely head could have been 
the original of the engraving prefixed to the First 
Folio: the "figure that thou here seest put" of Ben 
Jonson's verses, the only portrait of Shakespeare that 
has come down to us with a clear record. 

" You must see the grave and bust before we go ; 
and to-morrow's our last day," was my remark as we 
stood in the High Street one breezy morning, outside 
the corner shop that was for many years the home of 
the poet's younger daughter. 

" True, and I must hear the rest of that doggerel 
rhyme. I have a theory about that rhyme, and I want 
to confirm it." 

The fates were propitious that morning ; for even 
as he spoke we saw not far ahead of us a group of three 
boys, and as we approached them they eyed us as a 
butcher may be supposed to eye an ox. 

A bland smile lit up Mr. Fairfield's countenance, and 
he paused and gazed around him as if drinking in the 
beauties of the High Street. This was enough. The 
three demons were about us in a moment, and the 
familiar words, " All about Shakespeare," were once 
more in our ears. It was, I blush to confess, Sunday 
morning, and the time was near noon. 

" If you say it slowly, I'll give you a penny each," 
said the seeker after knowledge, and a pencil and paper 
were in his hand. 

One boy took up the story, and now and again his 
companions joined in. Except where the recital sub- 
sided into unmitigated prose, the rhythmical swing 
which we had noticed a few days earlier was strictly 
observed; and at certain pauses, evidently familiar to 
all three, each boy stamped his foot on the ground. 

The following is a true and correct transcript of the 
matter, which on that Sunday morning in September, 
1901, the boys recited to us in the High Street of 
Shakespeare's town : — 




L ;A: T) J\C^ 

Printed by Ilaac IaggarJ,ancl Ed. Blount, i (Jz 5. 



WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 
(From the First Folio.) 



"ALL ABOUT SHAKESPEARE " 99 

Shakespeare stole a deer 
Out of Charlecote Park ; 
He gave it to the poor people. 
He saw some men a-ploughing on Monday ; 
He asked them why they was ploughing on Sunday : 
They said it wasn't Sunday, it was Monday. 
He slept from Saturday night till Monday morning ; 
He got up in a crabtree. He saw — 
Piping Peb worth, dancing Marston, 
Haunted Hillborough, hungry Grafton, 
Dodging Exhall, papist Wixford, 
Beggarly Broom and drunken Bidford. 
It's got on the tomb of Shakespeare's grave : — 
Good friend, for Jesus' sake forbear 
To dig the dust enclosed here ; 
Blest be the man that spares these stones, 
And curst be he that moves my bones. 
John Harvard's house was built in 1596 : the man that founded 
Harvard College in America near Boston iu the State of Massa- 
chusetts. 

John Harvard was an American. 

The American fountain was given by William George Childs 
of Philadelphia on the Queen Victoria's Jubilee 1887. There's a 
stone laid by Lady Hodgson, June the twentieth 1887. 

At Anne Hatha way's cottage there's a stone that Charles Dickens 
sat on to write his name in the register. 

Mrs. Baker tumbled downstairs and broke her leg : she was 
eighty-five. 

Every tree and flower planted in Shakespeare's garden was men- 
tioned in Shakespeare's plays. 

Shakespeare's house was divided in three parts — one the public, 
one the butcher's shop, and one the woollen shop. 

There is a room where Shakespeare was born 1564 : died 1616 : 
Sir Walter Scott wrote his name on the window with his ring. 

He was fifty-two when he died : Anne Hathaway when she died 
was sixty-seven. 

There were few people in the High Street that morn- 
ing to mark the long grave tourist who was writing 
from the boys' dictation on a sheet of paper that fluttered 
in the wind, and who had to break off so often to en- 
treat them not to go too fast. The American part of the 
recital seemed to occasion him much inward anguish. 

" I've settled it," said he with bland triumph when 
we were by ourselves once more. "I felt pretty sure 
the other day what that stamp meant, and now I know. 



100 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

The boys are accustomed to recite in unison and that's 
how they keep time. Do you know what that means, 
sir ? " And seeing from my face that I did not, he went 
on, laying an emphasising finger on my arm — " It means, 
they teach that hogwash in the schools here ". 

POSTSCEIPT 
"HE WAS DROONK, Y'E KNOO!" 

In Stratford town there dwelt a man, 

And Stratford loves to think 
Not even Master Caliban 

Was such a slave to drink : 
Morn, noon, and night throughout his span 
He emptied cup, he emptied can ; ^ 

Adown his throat the liquor ran 

Like soapsuds down a sink. 

And, coupled with his high renown 
As master-sot of Stratford town, 
Another gift is handed down ; 

In equal honour kept : 
■ Three hundred years ago he died 
And yet to-day the countryside 
Remembers with a thrill of pride 

How massively he slept. 

And while the universal earth 
Extols his wisdom and his worth ; 
Lord of our tears and of our mirth, 

Master of music too ! 
Here in this little home of thine 
Poor Tom, who cadges at the shrine, 
Hails thee as brother, half-divine. 

For — " iJe was droonk, y'e knoo ! " 



CHAPTEK VIII 

SHAKESPEARE'S CHURCH 

" The place is quite a cathedral," said Mr. Fairfield, as 
next morning we were making our way along the lime 
avenue to the church porch. " I'm glad we didn't come 
on the machines," he went on, as he pointed to a notice 
annoimcing that all bicycles must be left with the at- 
tendant, and that a fee of one penny would be charged. 
" The attendant, I observe, is of tender years, I would 
not entrust my bicycle to him ; but I am glad to find 
that there is one boy in Stratford earning pennies in a 
quasi-legitimate way." My friend was in a merry mood, 
and he laughed at his own facetiousness. 

The verger in the long cassock gave us tickets of ad- 
mission in exchange for our sixpences. There were no 
noisy excursionists in the porch that morning. There 
was a fair sprinkling of visitors in the church, however, 
and we could see that there was quite a little gathering 
of them at the altar-rail. 

" We'll have a look round the place first, and leave 
the grave and monument till the last," said my friend ; 
" the coast may be clear then." 

We examined the two old registers in a glass case, 
and read the entries of Shakespeare's baptism and death. 
There was another glass case which contained specimens 
of the wares on sale. I purchased the official guide-book 
to the church, and I suggested that we should buy 
something else as a souvenir of the visit ; but my com- 
panion shied at this ; he remembered that unfortunate 
•plaque. I pointed out to him that there was a separate 

101 



102 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

visitors' book for Americans, and here again I met with a 
rebuff. The autograph of James C. Fairfield of Chicago 
was not added to that vokime. 

We wandered about the building guide-book in hand. 
I am afraid our thoughts were bent on the tomb and 
monument, and we viewed the body of the church with 
no great interest. " All around is Shakespeare's exclu- 
sive property," as Sir "Walter Scott entered in his 
journal. 

" There is a chance here that you must not miss," I 
said at length, pointing to a notice stuck up in one of 
the windows. This notice invited the visitor to pay 
the expense of filling the window with stained glass, 
and not only stated what the cost would be, but, with 
the intention of saving the American pilgrim all possible 
trouble, it went on to give the equivalent in dollars. 
Mr. Fairfield's lip curled. 

"It's very considerate; very considerate indeed," he 
remarked. " The calculation seems to be quite correct." 
But he showed no sign of producing his cheque-book. 

ii c rpj^g south transept is sometimes called the Ameri- 
can Chapel,' " I announced from the official guide-book. 
"' In it is the American window which was unveiled by 
the American ambassador in 1896.' It contains, I see, 
the figures of a number of saints and bishops, including 
Dr. William Seabury, first Bishop of Connecticut, whose 
consecration at Aberdeen in 1787 is also represented. 
You have heard of the bishop, I suppose? " 

" Old man Seabury ! " answered my friend, with an 
air of grave, yet genial recognition that was, of course, 
purely ironical ; — " old man Seabury ! His name, sir, is 
a household word in the United States. I would not," 
he went on, with a twinkle in his eye, " have missed 
seeing his portrait for worlds. One might have known 
it would be in Shakespeare's church. Let us hope they 
take care of it, and put it into a fireproof safe every 
night." 

" At the west end of the church," I continued, " is a 



SHAKESPEARE'S CHURCH 103 

copy of the agreement drawn up between the bishop 
and his consecrators. According to the guide-book, this 
appears to be of such interest to American church-people 
that it has been printed, and a copy can be obtained 
from the custodian for twopence^ — shall I get one for 
you?" 

"You give me the twopence and I'll tell you all about 
Shakespeare twice over," was Mr. Fairfield's answer. 

" I am afraid you are not an American church-per- 
son," I said, eyeing him with some sternness. 

" What little I do in that line, sir, is with the Ply- 
mouth Brethren," was the retort, delivered with quiet 
pride. " That is a quotation from ' Punch ' ; not a 
statement of fact," he confessed a moment later. 

" This really is interesting," I said in all seriousness, 
when we had reached the north transept and were look- 
ing at the screen which shuts off the north end of it, 
" The guide-book says that it was the old chancel-screen, 
and that through its doors was doubtless carried the 
body of William Shakespeare, to be laid to rest before 
the altar." 

" Then why in the name of wonder has it been 
brought here? " 

" The guide-book says it was removed in the so-called 
restoration in 1842. I think I have heard something of 
that restoration. It was then, or perhaps earlier, that 
the original tombstone was taken away and a new one 
substituted for it." 

" The person responsible for that restoration ought to 
have been whipped at the cart's tail," said Mr. Fairfield 
savagely. " I did not know that the tombstone was not 
here." 

" This guide-book merely states that the inscription 
has been recut ; but I am certain Halliwell-Phillipps 
says somewhere that the present tombstone is modern." 

" Well I'm gormed ! " said my fellow-pilgrim in awe- 
struck accents a minute later. " I deprecate the use of 
such an expression in a place of worship, but really I 



104 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

am gormed, and nothing milder will meet the case." 
He was standing before a notice-board, which stated, 
that any one wishing to play the organ must pay a fee 
of half-a-crown, and that the performance must not ex- 
tend beyond a quarter of an hour. 

" They told us at the Hathaway house that Barnum 
made an offer to buy their whole concern, lock, stock 
and barrel," he continued, his eyes glued upon the notice. 
" If he'd come on here, I guess this edifice would have 
taught him a few wrinkles in the show business." 

" I've a great mind to have half-a-crown's worth," 
was his next remark ; and he shot a glance at me, and 
then looked over to where a second cassocked verger 
was hovering near us. 

" Perhaps you will give me time to get outside first," 
I pleaded, for I knew that he was no musician. 

" But I must have some one to blow the bellows. I 
don't know much about organs, but I do know that. 
And, by-the-by, I rather fancy you have to play with 
your feet as well as your hands. That's unfortunate — 
but after all, a cat can have but its claws : a man can 
do no more than his best." Mr. Fairfield said this 
with the air of one who strengthens himself in some 
high resolve. 

" I will smoke a pipe outside," said I. 

' ' No need for you to go, sir. If I so far forgot myself 
as to perform on that instrument, and my music did not 
give satisfaction, I should tell them I was an American 
citizen." 

" And what would happen then ? " 

A bland smile overspread my companion's features. 

" They would implore me to resume operations, and 
they would offer to put my portrait in one of the windows 
of the American chapel — I paying expenses and contri- 
buting something to the restoration fund." 

" We must not overlook the third window from the 
end, on the left-hand side of the chancel," said I, to 
change the subject. My national pride had been a little 



SHAKESPEARE'S CHURCH 105 

irritated ever since we had entered the church, and my 
friend's sarcasm carried a sting. " ' The subjects ' " — 
here I was quoting from the official guide — " ' are 
Scriptural illustrations of the seven ages of man, from 
the play of " As you like it ".' " 

Mr. Fairfield looked at me with an unbelieving smile, 
and then he looked at the window. 

" I thought you were joking," he said. 

" I am reading word for word from the guide-book." 
And I went on — " ' There is Moses the infant, mewling 
and puking in his nurse's arms ; then Samuel is the 
schoolboy, creeping like snail unwillingly to school 

" Ah, the whining schoolboy with his satchel and 
shining morning face," interposed my listener. " This 
is indeed seeing Samuel in a new light." 

" ' Jacob the lover with sonnet to his mistress' eye- 
brow,' " — I continued, disregarding the interruption, 
" ' Joshua the soldier, full of strange oaths and bearded 
like the pard.' " 

" I didn't know that Joshua swore like a trooper," 
broke in Mr. Fairfield once again; "I think none the 
better of him for it. But possibly the donors of that 
window think otherwise — one can't help remembering 
how Stratford clings to the legend that its idol was a 
toss-pot." 

" Your interruptions are somewhat irreverent," I sug- 
gested with due severity. " Please allow me to go on." 

" I would not stop you for the world," was the polite 
answer. 

" ' Up above,' " I resumed, " ' Solomon is the justice, 
full of wise saws and modern instances.' " Here I 
paused, for the comicality of the thing was hard to 
resist. 

" In my mind's eye I see him in his fair round belly, 
with good capon lined," murmured my companion, his 
grave eyes dancing with merriment ; then, with por- 
tentous gravity he continued, " Eeally, I must ask you to 
read no more. My moral sense revolts from such a 
picture of the Wise Man. Does the guide-book give 



106 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

the name of the genius who is responsible for this 
window? " 

I had anticipated some question of this kind, and was 
prepared with the answer. But I did not hurry ; my 
national pride was still smarting. " The guide-book 
says that the window," I began, slowly, " ah, here it 
is," and I read aloud — " ' has been erected by the vol- 
untary offerings of Americans who visit the shrine of 
the chief of poets '." 

A faint whistle of astonishment escaped Mr. Fair- 
field, as he stood devouring the window with his eyes. 
Then he turned to me, a smile of triumph on his lips : — 

" I guess Uncle Sam got back a bit of his own here," 
he explained ; and seeing that I did not understand, he 
added : " It's a practical joke, man ; I wish Mark Twain 
could see it ! " 

" Some of your guide-books say," I remarked, " that 
people will contribute to these windows, but won't con- 
tribute to the repair of the church." 

"I don't believe my countrymen are such fools," as- 
serted the scoffer, without a trace of his former merri- 
ment. 

" The guide-book also says that parts of the fabric are 
in imminent danger." 

" If that's true, it's about time your Parliament took 
charge of this church," quoth Mr. Fairfield, in flaming 
wrath. " If the present authorities play about with such 
toys as coloured windows, when the place itself is not 
safe, they ought to be taught better, or transferred to 
some other sphere of usefulness." 

"• There is the grave," I said, when at length we stood 
before the altar-rail. The chancel was clear of visitors 
by this time. 

My friend's gaze rested for a moment on the pave- 
ment before us, and then tmrned to the monument. 

" This is shameful, abominable ! " he exclaimed in hot 
wrath. 

" What is? " I asked in astonishment. 



SHAKESPEARE'S CHURCH 107 

" This barrier. You can't get anything Hke a full 
view of the face without going inside. That means 
another fee, of course." 

" My dear Fairfield, this is the altar-rail. We are in 
a parish church, not a mausoleum," 

I spoke in a tone of remonstrance, for I thought his 
wrath unreasonable, 

" It's put here on purpose," he went on as angrily as 
ever ; " I feel sure it used to be farther back, and they've 
brought it forward on purpose." 

" After all, what does it matter to an American citi- 
zen ? " I suggested, I had bethought me of his sarcasm 
about the organ, and I seized my opportunity. 

From the startled expression on his face, I saw that 
he thought I was challenging his right to criticise ; that 
I was suggesting he was a foreigner, one who had no 
part nor lot in England's Shakespeare. 

" You can climb over," I added, grimly. 

He took my meaning in a flash and he broke into a 
smile. 

" I can't afford it," he said ; and then with a sudden 
seriousness he went on hastily, " that was a silly joke of 
mine ; very ill-mannered, too. I beg your pardon ; I 
spoke without thought, and never dreamed of your tak- 
ing it amiss." And he held out his hand. 

His sorrow was so manifest as he proffered the olive- 
branch, that it melted me to confession, 

"I was annoyed only because I felt it was true. 
After all," I went on penitently, " every man is a little 
bit of his own country, and when he sees her holding 
out the hat in that way to another country — even 
America — it makes him touchy." 

We stood gazing at the tombstone, each trying in 
some dim half-conscious way to call up the last scene, 

" Do you believe he wrote the lines on the grave? " 
asked my companion at length, 

" I am disposed to think he did. My little guide- 
book says no one will suppose that he wrote such 



108 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

doggerel himself. But are they doggerel? There is 
no sort of inspiration about the four lines, but — 

Good friend, for Jesus' sake forbear 
To dig the dust enclosed here, 

seems to me to have an easy homeliness that is not at 
Sill un-Shakespearean, and the last two lines — • 

Blest be the man that spares these stones, 
And curst be he that moves my bones, 

are not what I should call doggerel. There seems to 
me a certain terse vigour about the whole thing ; and 
if it be considered from the standpoint that Shakespeare 
knew it was the practice here to remove remains after 
a decent interval of interment, to the bone-house, into 
which that door on our left used to open, and the 
thought of his own remains being so dealt with was re- 
pugnant to him, can any one say that even he could have 
framed an epitaph that would appeal more effectually to 
the illiterate and probably superstitious sextons or parish 
clerks, who would have control over the grave ? " 

" Your Tennyson thought it was Shakespeare's, any- 
how, and he was a pretty good judge of a poetical 
article," quoth Mr. Fairfield, and he proceeded to re- 
peat the lines he had in mind : — 

" My Shakespeare's curse on clown or knave. 
Who will not let his ashes rest." 

"Which is the widow's tomb?" he asked, after he 
had been to the extreme south end of the altar-rail to 
get a better view of the bust, and had returned to my 
side looking very discontented. 

" The one on the left of Shakespeare's, and the 
daughter Susannah's is the third from the right. There 
is a quaint and very pretty poetical epitaph on hers. 
My clerical guide-book calls it an amusing rhyme ; I 
will read it to you : — 



SHAKESPEARE'S CHURCH 109 

" Witty above her sex, but that's not all, 

Wise to salvation was good Mistress Hall. 

Something of Shakespeare was in that, but this 

Wholly of Him with whom she's now in bliss. 

Then, passenger, hast ne'er a tear, 

To weep with her that wept with all ? 

That wept yet set herself to cheer 

Them up with comforts cordial. 

Her love shall live, her mercy spread. 

When thou hast ne'er a tear to shed." 

" Very diverting indeed," was Mr. Fairfield's sardonic 
comment when I had finished. After a pause he went 
on : " There will be trouble here if ever old Brer Tarrypin 
comes and reads it. You may have forgotten," he ex- 
plained, " that if old Brer Tarrypin was taken with one 
of those spells of his, folks had to sit up with him, 
because he laughed so loud and he laughed so long. I 
hope you know ' Uncle Remus '." 

" ' Brer Tarrypin wuz de out'nes' man,' " was my 
only answer ; but Mr. Fairfield accepted it as more than 
satisfactory. 

Certain sounds to our rear warned us that a horde 
of pilgrims was approaching the shrine. We passed 
out into the churchyard and made our way to the terrace. 
Mr. Fairfield admitted that when on the Bankside I had 
assured him that there was no more beautiful prospect 
in England, I spoke nothing but the truth. 

There is a rude stone seat near the water's edge, and 
here we seated ourselves that warm September morning 
and sought consolation in tobacco. 

"It's a pity that money has to be made out of this 
church and the houses in Henley Street," said my friend 
musingly. 

" And what about the Hathaway house ? " 

" I don't think that's worth considering. Taking it 
at its best, it's only a picturesque old farmhouse at which 
possibly the woman whom Shakespeare married was 
brought up. That sort of association with Shakespeare 
is far too shadowy to enthuse me." 



no RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

" And what would you do with the church and the 
two houses? " 

" I hardly know about the houses ; but I think the 
church ought to be in the hands of the State. Shake- 
speare's grave is one of the biggest things in the whole 
world. No one but his country herself ought to have 
control of it. It's a little gold mine if it's worked for 
profit ; but for the sake of public decency there ought 
to be no money-making about it. The State ought to 
keep the church up as a national monument. I wouldn't 
have the parson interfered with as regards his spiritual 
duties ; but I would have the church so controlled that 
it should be secure against wind and weather, and that 
a man could reach Shakespeare's grave without having 
all feeling of reverence knocked out of him before he 
got there — surely England can keep up Shakespeare's 
church without cadging for outside help. And I'd have 
it bear something of a national character. Tennyson 
had your flag on his coffin. Why not have the flag over 
Shakespeare's monument, and why shouldn't the men 
who guard it be old soldiers with medals on their breasts? " 

Mr. Fairfield paused. He had spoken with so much 
intensity that he was out of breath. He wiped his brow 
and relapsed into silence. 

" Not but what there's something very stimulating 
to a business mind in the way the business is conducted 
here," he resumed in his usual tone of polite irony a 
few minutes later. He had cooled down and was look- 
ing at the ticket of admission which he had received in 
the porch. I had not kept mine, so I asked him for 
an explanation. 

" ' Admission to see Shakespeare's grave, sixpence 
each,' " he read aloud. " ' All children, except those in 
arms, must be paid for.' That sounds like business." 

" Perhaps they don't want children in the church," I 
suggested. 

" I think they do, sir — at sixpence a head. If not, 
why admit them at all ? " 



SHAKESPEARE'S CHURCH 111 

There seemed no answer to this. I held my peace, 
and Mr. Fairfield continued to read from the ticket, 

" ' The custodian is directed to admit all parishioners 
and their friends with them, without payment ; also 
clergymen on presentation of their card and any persons 
who desire to enter the nave only, solely for the purpose 
of prayer or meditation.' It's weak, sir, very weak to 
let those persons in free," continued Mr. Fairfield in 
the tone of one whose sense of propriety has been out- 
raged. " What business has any visitor to want to pray 
or meditate in Shakespeare's church? " 

" You mean without paying for it," I suggested, 
entering into his humour. 

" Certainly, sir; and speaking as a man of business, I 
ask you why, with such a handsome free list — parishion- 
ers and their friends with them — with them, you observe 
— and clergymen " 

"I think that only means properly ordained clergy- 
men, not mere ministers of religion," I broke in, anxious 
to do justice between the authorities and their censor. 

" No doubt ! no doubt! But with such a free list, 
why rob the treasury by letting in outsiders at all ? " 

" Are you quite just? " I protested; " the admission 
is hedged round with so many provisos that the trea- 
sury is in no danger. The visitor's purpose must be 
solely that of prayer or meditation, and he must desire 
to enter the nave only. Have you forgotten the broad 
gulf before the altar-rail? Surely that is enough to 
protect the authorities against the risk of any such 
person obtaining a free glimpse of the valuable com- 
mercial assets behind it." 

" I spoke in haste," admitted my client, " and I beg 
pardon. I had forgotten the interval. It is indeed a 
rampart against fraud — or ' as a moat defensive to a 
house '. But I still hold, sir, that the indulgence is a 
mistake. Think of the extra work it must throw on 
the check-taker in the porch and his colleague in the 
chancel. And besides, it spoils the symmetry of the 



112 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

show-business if you mention prayer or meditation on 
the checks. It reminds you that the place is a church ; 
and a church, where all children, except infants in arms, 
must be paid for, tickles a man's sense of humour." 

Something seemed to tickle his sense of humour 
very powerfully a few minutes later, for he burst out 
laughing. 

" I was thinking," he explained, " that any one who 
wanted to pray or meditate without paying his footing, 
would have a bad time in that porch before he got 
passed in ; and then I thought of what a sharp look-out 
those two officials would keep on him while he was pur- 
suing his devotions. And then, sir, it occurred to me 
that after a spell of prayer and meditation, the penitent 
might forget where he was, and might make for the 
altar-rail ; and," here he laughed again, " I thought how 
disturbing it would be for him to be headed-off by the 
inside gentleman in the Noah's-ark coat ! " 

" It wouldn't happen," I said, after we had had our 
laugh out. 

"Of course it wouldn't," was the answer; " only I 
like to figure it out in that way." 

" I've enjoyed this jaunt very much," declared my 
fellow-pilgrim, after a long pause. " The place is lovely " 
— here his eye rested on the scene before us — "so's the 
country round ; but for getting near to Shakespeare give 
me the Bankside ! " 

"Particularly at night-time," I suggested — "after 
dinner, in fact." 



CHAPTEK IX 

WITH GOLDSMITH IN GREEN ARBOUR COURT 

" When you have half an hour to spare, I can show you 
something interesting. Any time will suit me." 

This was the message, written by Mr. Fairfield upon 
a scrap of paper in my outer office one afternoon, and 
duly brought into my sanctum. 

" Say I shall be disengaged in a few minutes, and 
ask him to wait," was my answer. 

It was not long before the client whose woes I was 
then considering had reached the end of his catalogue ; 
and when Mr. Fairfield had been inducted into the seat 
just vacated, I could see that, to him at all events, the 
something referred to in the message was very interest- 
ing indeed. 

" It's nothing at all important. I doubt if it's worth 
your wasting your time over it." 

He said this with a deprecating wave of the hand ; 
but in his tone and manner there was a suggestion of 
triumph and suppressed excitement, which belied his 
words, and conveyed a promise of fat things. 

" Human life being so uncertain, let me see it at once," 
I answered, with due gravity. " The man who was sit- 
ting in your chair two minutes ago, lost £200 because 
he put off until Tuesday what he might have done on 
Monday." 

" I think you will last for a few days yet, and there 
really is no hurry." He laughed as he said this ; but 
he rose to his' feet as if anxious to take me at my word. 

" I was not thinking of myself," I observed, as I began 
8 113 



114 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

to tidy up my table. " My anxiety was all on your ac- 
count; your intellectual boiler shows signs of severe 
pressure." 

" I'm as cool as a cucumber," he protested ; and then 
without an instant's pause he got to business. — " Do 
you know anything about Oliver Goldsmith ? " 

A question so bald as this deserved no serious answer. 
" Oliver Goldsmith ? " I repeated ; " yes, the name seems 
familiar. Wasn't it he who wrote a history of Eng- 
land ? I got it for a prize when I was a child. Surely 
it can't be popular on your side of the Atlantic, — it's in 
the form of a series of letters to a young nobleman. 
That, of course, would never go down in a free republic." 

I am afraid the delicate flavour of my irony was lost 
on Mr. Fairfield ; for he had produced some slips of 
paper from his pocket-book, and was busy turning them 
over as I spoke. But he heard enough to bring him 
to a sense of the enormity of which he had been 
guilty. 

" I only meant, did you know Forster's ' Life ' ? " 

" I know it nearly as well as Mr. Wegg knew the 
* Annual Register '. Do you remember what he said 
about that ? " 

Just then the visitor's mind was brimful of Oliver 
Goldsmith, but at no time could an allusion to his be- 
loved Dickens miss the mark. His answer was ready, 
and his face beamed as he gave it : — 

"'Know the Animal Register, sir? For a trifling 
wager, I could find any animal in him blindfold.' " 

" If you know the ' Life ' so well you must remember 
Green Arbour Court," he went on. " It's an interesting 
place ; Goldsmith lived there for two years." 

"I remember something about it." 

" Goldsmith was thirty when he went there in 1758. 
He'd had rough times in those thirty years. His ex- 
periences were enough to equip a dozen of modern 
story-tellers. Just think of what he'd been before he 
came to England — a sizar at Trinity College, Dublin, 



IN GREEN ARBOUR COURT 115 

a medical student at Edinburgh and Ley den, and a 
vagabond — a fluting and disputing vagabond — over half 
Europe ! And over here, he'd tried play-acting, physick- 
ing poor people — I remember your mentioning that on 
the Bankside, that night you were so mellow two years 
ago — besides proof-correcting for Sam Eichardson, 
school-mastering, and, worst of all, hack-writing for 
Griffiths the bookseller. Man alive ! it was in Green 
Arbour Court that he wrote the ' Bee ' and the ' Citizen 
of the World ' ! " 

" Is there anything of the place left ? " 

"Not a vestige." Mr. Fairfield's response was as 
joyous as if it had been an assurance that not a brick 
of Green Arbour Court had been disturbed since Gold- 
smith left it. I looked at him for an explanation. 

" You come along with me," was all he said. 

" Do you remember Holborn Hill before the Viaduct 
was made? " 

We had passed out of Gray's Inn, and had made our 
way down Holborn nearly as far as the Circus, when 
my companion asked this question. 

I had not known Holborn in the days when a church- 
yard lay between the main road and St. Andrew's 
Church, and when that road descended to Farringdon 
Street by a violent slope ; but I had heard old^Londoners 
speak of the steepness of the hill and of the strain that 
it had imposed upon horse flesh. 

' ' The hollow which is now bridged by the Viaduct is 
the valley of the river Fleet ; it's proper name is the 
Holborn Valley. That's what it's called in the official 
records of the improvement. I've hunted them up a 
good bit just lately." 

As Mr. Fairfield spoke he came to a dead stop, a few 
paces west of the Prince Consort's statue. 

" It's more than thirty years ago since they made the 
Viaduct. Down to where we are standing, Holborn 
runs as of old ; but beyond " — here he waved his hand 
across the roadway — " the whole face of the country has 



116 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

been changed. For acres and acres not one stone was 
left upon another." 

" But surely Ely Place isn't new ? " 

" No, it isn't exactly new : the houses go back to 
about 1780. The chapel's one of the oldest buildings 
in London ; it was part of Ely House, the Bishop of 
Ely's palace. John of Gaunt died in Ely House. 
Queen Elizabeth helped Christopher Hatton to filch 
a great slice of the property later on — he even got 
the gatehouse. Malcolm gives the best account of the 
robbery that I know. Didn't we talk about it that 
afternoon when we hunted out the Hatton Garden 
police-office ? " 

" I don't think you said anything about the present 
Ely Place being built." 

"Your Government sold what was left to one of its 
deputy surveyors. That was in George the Third's 
time — it was a nice thing to be a Government official in 
those days. He pulled down the old hall, and he built 
the present houses. A little before that, by-the-by, 
there had been a proposal to move the Fleet Prison to 
Ely Place. Fortunately the beast of a fellow didn't pull 
down the chapel." 

" I've been over that." 

" So have I. It's an interesting place. Evelyn's 
daughter Susanna was married there. I've a great 
admiration for Evelyn; Disraeli was right when he 
made Cardinal Grandison say he had a character that 
approached perfection. Fanny Burney's son was min- 
ister at that chapel. The place is better looked after 
now than it was in his time. It gave him his death — 
it was so damp." 

"I think I can remember some rebuilding going on 
at this end of Ely Place." 

" Very likely. The making of Charterhouse Street 
shore off six or seven of the houses on each side, and a 
new house was put up at each corner. But the rest of 
the place wasn't touched. There's some rebuilding 



m GREEN ARBOUR COURT 117 

going on at the other end, now, by-the-by. The old 
entrance was in Holborn, between two houses — shops, I 
suppose. It was nearly opposite St. Andrew's — a few 
paces westward to be quite accurate. I was told the 
other day that there used to be a very fine pair of iron 
gates, and nobody knew what became of them." 

" Charterhouse Street is all quite new, I suppose." 

" Every inch of it. Before the valley was bridged, 
Holborn ran from Hatton Garden citywards, with 
nothing to break its continuity except the side streets. 
It's difficult now to form any notion of what it looked 
like." 

With the Circus stretching before us, and three great 
trunk thoroughfares branching from it, it was not easy 
to form any sort of mental picture of the Holborn which 
used to run as an unbroken main road between Ely 
Place and St. Andrew's Church, and down a steep hill 
into Farringdon Street. 

"Wasn't Field Lane somewhere near here?" I 
asked. 

Mr. Fairfield pointed down Charterhouse Street. " It 
went across there, a little below Ely Place, and ran into 
Holborn, a shade east of the City Temple, yonder." 

" I was thinking of ' Oliver Twist '." 

" Of course, of course ! Dickens gives a minute de- 
scription of it. He calls it a narrow and dismal alley, 
the emporium of petty larceny. In his time it was the 
mart for selling handkerchiefs which pickpockets had 
stolen. It was in Field Lane that Mr. Lively sat at 
his shop door in a child's chair and held converse with 
Fagin — it was a vile place." 

" It's a good thing it's gone." 

Mr. Fairfield pursed up his lips. To admit that the 
old thieves' quarter which used to disgrace Holborn 
Hill was a plague spot was all very well ; but to rejoice 
over an improvement that had altered the face of part 
of the London of " Oliver Twist," was quite another 
matter. 



118 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

" There's something of Field Lane left," he said. 
" It's name has disappeared from the map, but you can 
still trace a scrap of its course. I can show it you if 
you like." 

He made this offer grudgingly, and I could see that 
he was unwilling to be diverted for even a few minutes, 
from introducing me to his great discovery. Under 
the circumstances, the temptation to accept was irre- 
sistible, 

" I should very much like to see it." 

The enthusiast gave a longing look at the Viaduct, 
as if he would fain move in that direction, but he could 
not go back on his offer ; so with hasty strides he led 
me down the north side of Charterhouse Street, and did 
not pause till we had reached an opening between the 
houses, a few paces short of Farringdon Street. Three 
broad flights of steps led down to a narrow street run- 
ning northward, with tall buildings that looked like 
warehouses or factories on either side. 

" That's Field Lane ! It used to be full of filthy 
shops, festooned with stolen pocket-handkerchiefs, and 
there was a barber's shop and a coffee-shop, and a beer- 
shop and a fried fish-shop. One can hardly believe it ! 
In the old days it ran up to Great Saffron Hill, and 
that ran up to Little Saffron Hill. Chick Lane ran out 
eastward at the junction of Field Lane and Great 
Saffron Hill ; not a stone's throw from where we're 
standing — a few yards to our right, in fact. It was a 
very sweet spot. Hogarth knew it ; it was in a night- 
cellar in Chick Lane that Tom Idle was betrayed to the 
peace of&cers. The cant name of the place was the 
Blood-bowl House. The gang that used it was called 
the Black-Boy- Alley gang : the alley was a turning out 
of Chick Lane. They decoyed their victims to the 
place and murdered them ; it was the custom of the 
house to dispose of the bodies by dropping them into 
the Fleet. It ran alongside, and the bodies floated 
quietly down into the Thames. It's quite creepy to 



IN GREEN ARBOUR COURT 119 

think of that Bowl House standing over yonder : just 
to our right-front. This city was an awful place in the 
time of George II. One mustn't take what Johnson 
says in his * London ' too seriously, for he was paraphras- 
ing Juvenal, but this neighbourhood really was a little 
hell upon earth : — 

London ! the needy villain's general home, 
The common sewer of Paris and of Rome. 

Scarce can our fields — such crowds at Tyburn die — 
With hemp the gallows and the fleet supply. 

Prepare for death, if here at night you roam. 
And sign your will before you sup from home." 

Mr. Fairfield fired off these extracts like minute guns, 
and drew a deep breath as he surveyed the sunken road- 
way and raked his memory for further ammunition. 
It was not long before he exploded with a fresh 
charge : — 

" Here malice, rapine, accident conspire, 

And now a rabble rages, now a fire ; 

Their ambush here relentless ruflians lay " 

He recited the third line with great emphasis and a 
sweep of his arm, that took in a considerable extent of 
brick and mortar to the north-east. Then he stopped 
short and looked into my face with twinkling eyes. 
He had stumbled upon something that amused him. 

" Surely you can finish the couplet? " said I. 

" I can, sir, and since you are so pressing, I will : — 

Their ambush here relentless ruffians lay, 
And here the fell attorney prowls for prey. " 

The scene of the ambush was again indicated by an 
inward sweep of my friend's right arm ; a knowing pat 
on my shoulder lent point to the opening of the line that 
followed. 

" Chick Lane has disappeared from the face of the 



120 KAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

earth," he continued, " but both the Saffron Hills re- 
main, and they and that road below us all figure on the 
map as Great Saffron Hill. But the road really is Field 
Lane. Fagin's house was over yonder, in or near Chick 
Lane ; Dickens took care not to indicate the exact spot. 
Do you remember the Three Cripples public-house on 
Little Saffron Hill? It was there Mr. Sykes had an 
altercation with his dog, and Noah Claypole and Char- 
lotte put up when they came to London. Fagin intro- 
duced himself to them there." 

" There's something I want to show you here," said 
Mr. Fairfield, when we had retraced our steps to 
Holborn Circus and were passing the north side of St. 
Andrew's church. " You see that black tablet near the 
ground — just under the middle windows ! Well, that's 
a carving of the general resurrection, and I'm pretty 
sure it used to be over the entrance to the Shoe Lane 
burial-ground. If I'm right, Chatterton's coffin passed 
under that tablet. There's another carving of the same 
sort over the gate of St. Stephen's, Coleman Street." 

" Are we to go in and look at it ? " I asked. 

" Perhaps we'd better press on ; you can see it some 
other time. The bells were ringing when I was prowl- 
ing about here the other afternoon. They were ringing 
for a christening. I suppose you've never heard them, 
though you've lived within a stone's-throw 'for years 
and years." 

" Are they anything wonderful ? " 

" Wonderful or not, they're very interesting to me. 
All old London bells are, and these have been ringing 
over the Holborn Valley for nearly four centuries and 
a half. Think of that. Master Brooke ! I waited to 
get a glimpse of the baby who was being so honoured." 

" But surely St. Andrew's is nothing like that age ; 
I thought it was one of Wren's churches." 

"So it is; but he didn't pull down the old tower. 
He only cased it in stone and added a storey to it. 
Those bells were hung in fourteen-fifty something." 



IN GREEN ARBOUR COURT 121 

We had reached the Viaduct by this time and had 
come to a stop. " From here to Ludgate Circus," said 
my guide, as we leaned on the parapet and looked down 
upon Farringdon Street, " the road follows the com'se 
of the Fleet. The old river is still running, though we 
don't see it. Stow calls it Fleet Dike — in earlier days 
it was Turnmill Brook. I guess it takes a biggish pipe 
to hold it, even now. There used to be a bridge — Hol- 
born Bridge — a shade north of where this viaduct 
stands. In Goldsmith's time, and for many years after- 
wards, the road below us was Fleet Market." 

So saying Mr. Fairfield proceeded to light a cigar ; 
and, lapsing into silence, he puffed at it ; his eyes fixed 
absently in the direction of Ludgate Hill. 

" Is your discovery far off ? " I inquired at length. 

" Oh, no, it's quite close; I was just thinking about 
it." He spoke like one aroused from a day-dream. 

" Green Arbour Court was a very poor place," he 
went on. " It lay between the road below us and the 
Old Bailey. Forster never saw it. He says in the 
' Life ' that the houses fairly rotted down somewhere 
about 1830 ; and that after serving for a time as the 
stabling and lofts of a waggon-office, the place went 
for ever. I've looked at a good many old maps, and 
from these and from what I've read it seems that in 
Goldsmith's time the court was an oblong close of tall old 
houses, lying pretty near due east and west, and the 
houses were in very bad repair. I've traced them back 
to 1677, and I've no doubt they were built just after 
the great fire. Goldsmith's was Number 12 ; Forster 
refers to a picture of it in the ' European Magazine ' for 
1803 — forty odd years after Goldsmith left. The house 
stood in a corner of the court — the north-west corner in 
fact ; though Sir James Prior, whom Forster followed, 
says otherwise. And under part of the basement 
storey — under Goldsmith's very windows ; for he had 
the first-floor front room — there was a tunnel giving 
access to a flight of steps which led down to the 



122 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

street behind. Washington Irving hunted the place 
out in 1820 or thereabouts. He seems to have had a 
devil of a job to find it ; I can't think why. He gave a 
full description in his ' Tales of a Traveller '. The steps 
were called Break-neck Steps, and according to Irving 
they were long and steep. Prior says the same. I 
think he had seen them, but I don't believe Forster had. 
He took what Prior said on trust. Goldsmith's side of 
the court must have stood on the edge of the ridge over- 
looking the Fleet Valley — on the east bank of the 
Fleet. In Forster's time the name of the court still 
figured on the map, though the open space had dis- 
appeared and a mere passage remained, but now even 
that's gone." 

Here Mr. Fairfield paused to coax his cigar back into 
working order. 

" "When I first read Forster and Irving many years 
ago," he resumed, " I took a deal of interest in the place. 
It was from there Goldsmith offered himself for ex- 
amination at Surgeons' Hall in the Old Bailey, when 
he wanted to qualify as a hospital mate. I daresay you 
remember how he got Griffiths to become security with 
a tailor for a new suit of clothes, so that he might make 
a decent appearance. He didn't pass the examination, 
notwithstanding his fine feathers, and before long he 
had to pawn them. He was in debt to the poor couple 
who let him, his room at Number 12, and as the husband 
had been arrested by bailiffs, money had to be raised 
somehow. Then there was a pretty to-do, for Griffiths 
wanted the clothes back. There were some books, too, 
that he wanted, and neither clothes nor books were 
forthcoming. Then he called Oliver a sharper and a 
villain and threatened to jail him. Poor Oliver ! the 
business was patched up in the end ; but he had a bad 
time over that suit of clothes and those books. It's a 
comfort to know that things mended a bit with him 
during the two years he lived over that flight of steps. 
I daresay he was often hungry, and I don't suppose he 
was ever a guinea to the good ; but he wrote the ' Bee ' 



IN GREEN ARBOUR COURT 123 

and the ' Citizen of the World ' there, and he began to 
be recognized as something better than a Grub Street 
man. Percy of the ' Reliques ' called on him at Number 
12. So did Smollett, and Newbery, the bookseller 
who afterwards published ' The Traveller ' and * The 
Vicar of Wakefield '. Yes, sir, I used to think long- 
before I crossed the Atlantic for the first time that 
I'd like to find the whereabouts of Green Arbour 
Court." 

" And now you've done it." This then was the great 
discovery. 

Mr. Fairfield regarded me with half-shut eyes, and 
he blew out a puff or two of smoke before replying. 

"I've done rather better than that ; you come along^ 
with me." 

So saying he headed eastward, and in a minute or 
two we were passing the railway terminus. For an 
instant my guide paused as if in doubt ; but after a 
muttered " The other entrance will be better," he led 
me to the corner of the Old Bailey. Before us lay the 
thoroughfare, and beyond it a great gap, marking the 
site of Newgate prison. The clearance was new to me,, 
and I halted to stare at the unexpected view of St. 
Paul's which it revealed. 

" Do you know why the Old Bailey widens out so at 
this end?" 

Mr. Fairfield asked this question as he scanned the 
prospect southward. 

I had never before observed that such was the fact, 
but standing at the comer, and looking towards Lud- 
gate Hill, the bulge on the west side was very noticeable. 

"Why is it?" 

" There used to be an island of houses in what is now 
the roadway. It extended from a little above where we 
are standing to Dean's Court, which is a few yards on 
this side of Fleet Lane. The frontage on the east side 
was straight, but on this side it took a wide curve. The 
street on the curved side was called the Little Old 



124 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

Bailey. Oliver Goldsmith's postal address was Green 
Arbour Court, Little Old Bailey." 

We turned sharp round the corner and made our way 
along a passage, having on one side the backs of the 
Viaduct houses and on the other a hoarding, which 
formed as I afterwards discovered, the northern bound- 
ary of the railway goods-depot. This hoarding ended 
at a brick shed, labelled Parcels Of&ce and abutting 
upon a side entrance to the terminus. 

" You see the shed on our left," observed my com- 
panion with deep meaning, as we reached the threshold 
of the station. 

I surveyed it with a due appearance of interest but 
made no comment. There was nothing in its very 
commonplace appearance to encomrage inquiry. 

No sooner had we entered the terminus, than it 
became evident that Mr. James C. Fairfield of Chicago 
was no stranger to the officials of the Chatham and 
South-Eastern Bailway Company. As we moved for- 
ward, we passed several porters, and on the face of each 
of them beamed a broad grin of recognition and welcome. 
On our approaching the entrance to the middle platform, 
the ticket-collector touched his cap and swung the 
barrier wide open to allow us passage. In our wake 
followed two porters, a stray guard and one of those 
oleaginous officials whose duty it is to see that the 
wheel-boxes are kept in a proper state of efficiency. 

At the third of the iron pillars which extend down 
the length of the platform and help to support the roof, 
my friend stopped. He faced due east, and drew him- 
self up to his full height. It was evident that he was 
about to disclose the great secret. The porters, the guard 
and the oiler grouped themselves round us ; mirth and 
joyous expectation lit up the countenances of all of them. 

There was a measured dignity about Mr. Fairfield's 
opening that was worthy of the occasion. 

"In a matter of this kind, all that is necessary is a 
little perseverance " 



IN GREEN ARBOUR COURT 125 

" All it wants, is a bit o' brain work and a little in- 
genooity," interrupted the oiler, in a tone of warm en- 
couragement. 

"Found another, sir?" This was the guard's 
genial inquiry. 

" Another what ? " The tone was perhaps a little 
snappish. 

" Another goldsmith's." 

As the guard said this he was shaken with inward 
merriment, and the demeanour of his three colleagues 
gave the world assurance that he had said a good thing. 
Mr. Fairfield saw all this, but he answered the question 
with grave serenity. 

" No, not another." 

This disclaimer seemed to arouse a general feeling of 
sympathy. The porters and the oiler showed it only in 
their looks, but the guard was ready with an offer of 
consolation. 

" There's something in the engine-'ouse as you'd like 
to see," quoth he, as if addressing a child. 

" Thank you ! — I shall be at your service in a few 
minutes." 

My friend spoke with his usual quiet courtesy, but 
his meaning was unmistakable. The bodyguard with- 
drew beyond the barrier ; but I could see that they and 
the ticket collector were keeping a vigilant eye on the 
pilgrim from Chicago, and that ever and anon one or 
another of the group made a remark which convulsed 
the rest with laughter. 

" You see this pillar," said Mr. Fairfield, patting the 
object referred to ; " and you see the next one — the 
fourth counting from the bamer? " 

After I had stared hard at the one and then at the 
other, I nodded. 

" The site of Number 12 Green Arbour Court occu- 
pied the space between them." 

He said this with studied calmness, but his eye 
sparkled with the consciousness of a great triumph. 



126 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

"Yes," he went on, after a moment's silence, "we 
are standing on the identical site of that old house. Not 
knowing it's exact dimensions, one can't locate it to a 
foot or two ; but I'll take my oath it stood between 
these two pillars. The house looked towards the Old 
Bailey, and I feel pretty sure that it stood about half on 
this platform and half on the permanent way in front 
of us." 

Standing midway between the two pillars, and fac- 
ing eastward, he indicated with four sweeps of his fore- 
finger a square of some twenty feet. 

" That's the site according to my calculations, I 
don't pretend to know what the level was in Goldsmith's 
time, but here's the site under our very feet. Isn't it 
odd to think," he went on, looking around him and 
showing by the freedom of his gestures that his en- 
thusiasm was beginning to boil over — "isn't it odd to 
think that just here, there used to be that old house 
with the front looking upon the little court, where 
Oliver used to play his flute to amuse the children, and 
the back looking upon a dirty lane? It was called 
Seacoal Lane, and those Break-neck Steps led down to 
it. I've read somewhere in Stow, that there used to be 
an Inn of Chancery in Seacoal Lane, and that it moved 
to the Strand, and set up there as New Inn, and I've 
read somewhere else — in Hughson, I think — that Green 
Arbour Court was possibly a relic of that old Inn — its 
green arbour, perhaps." 

" Just look round this depot," he went on, " and try 
to fancy what the place was like in Goldsmith's time — 
that's far enough back for me. This roof covers one 
half of the court, and the goods-depot yonder covers 
the rest. The job's too big for a man's imagination — 
it fairly stumps mine, anyhow. This railway has eaten 
up Seacoal Lane — lock, stock, and barrel, and piles of 
bricks and mortar besides. It fairly dazes me to look 
at this platform and those metals, and try to call up 
that rotten old house with the flight of steps running 
through it down to Seacoal Lane — the steps that he 



IN GREEN ARBOUR COURT 127 

went up and down every day of his life, and that 
Washington Irving went up more than eighty years 
ago. When I feel dazed like this over a vanished bit 
of old London, I always think of the ' Arabian Nights,' 
and I feel one ought to be able to call in some genie 
and make him reconstruct it for you." Here he fairly 
lost touch with the work-a-day world ; he gave the plat- 
form a smart tap with a patent-leather shoe, as if 
summoning the genie to do his bidding. 

" I would say to him, ' Show me the Green Arbour 
Court of 1760 ! '" he exclaimed. 

" Haven't you felt that want sometimes ? " he asked, 
a moment later. " I don't like to think I'm madder 
than my fellows ! " The air with which he said this 
was positively hangdog. 

" Possibly ; but if I had that power of reconstruction, 
I'm not certain I should confine its exercise to the re- 
surrection of old houses." 

" What would you resurrect ? " 

" What do you say to a man's own youth ? " 

His answer was instantaneous and very decisive. 
" No, thank you — not for me, thank you, at all events. 
I can do enough of that sort of resurrection, and more 
than enough, as it is — even in my waking hours." 

It was odd to stand on platform Number 3 of Hol- 
born Viaduct terminus, with the noise and bustle of 
the place in one's ears, and to be assured that just under 
foot lay the site of the house in which Goldsmith spent 
two years of his short life. No man need be ashamed 
of confessing a tenderness for Oliver Goldsmith, and 
my friend's discovery, trumpery though it might be, in- 
terested and stirred me not a little. 

POSTSCEIPT 
THE BELLS OF ST. ANDREW'S, HOLBORN 

They rang their message of weal or woe 

In days of the Romish pride ; 
They caught a gleam of the fires below, 

When the Smithfield martyrs died. 



128 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

They rang for feast;, and they rang for fast : 

They rang for the Roses twain, 
Ere the Red Rose scattered, and fell at last. 

In the mire of Barnet plain. 
And lo, they rang for a mite to-day, 

Who chewed at his fist the while. 
Or wriggled about with his arms at play, 

And a quaint, little, toothless smile ! 
In years to come, you will understand, and blush at the honour done — 
They rang for Warwick the Kingmaker ; and they rang for yow, my 



They rang at first, over stream and dell 

Where the nodding alder shook, 
And toilers bowed to the vesper bell, 

As they rowed on Turnmill Brook ; 
When Ely's lord had a fair demesne, 
With chapel and gatehouse too. 
And Saflfron Hill was an upland green 

Where the purple saffron grew. 
They rang the obit of bishop and priest : 

They rang for His Majesty's grace. 
When Henry rode to the Serjeants' feast 
In the hall of Ely Place. 
The same old bells — in the same old tower, good sooth, as the 

records run ! — 
They rang for King Hal and Queen Katherine ; and they rang for 
you, my son ! 

Pealing and tolling from year to year, 

They hailed, the centuries through. 
Hero or sovereign, abbot or peer, 

Ere ever they rang for you — 
You, such an image to favour the joke, 

Fidgettiug there on your spine. 
Such a hot little shrimp in the christening cloak 

Your grandmother thinks so fine ! 
Sucking a fist that is pudgy and soft. 

Working your bonnet awry. 
Deaf as a post to the clamour aloft, 

Though the great bells clash on high ; 
All Holborn astir with their music : and you such a figure of fun ! — 
They rang for the Nile and Trafalgar ; and they rang for you, my son ! 



CHAPTEE X 

FOLLOWING IN GOLDSMITH'S FOOTSTEPS 

When we had passed the ticket-collector we found our 
bodyguard of railway servants in waiting for us near 
the bookstall. The guard and the two porters at once 
took Mr. Fairfield in tow. The oiler did not accompany 
them ; and as the party seemed in no want of my com- 
pany, I decided to remain with him. 

" You seem to know my friend pretty well here," 
said I. 

"Rather !" The answer was terse; but the wink 
and the click of the tongue which followed it spoke 
volumes. To the oiler and his colleagues, Mr. Fairfield 
was no mere fellow-creature ; he was an oasis in the 
desert of life, a something to be rejoiced over and to be 
thankful for. 

"When he first come 'ere, we didn't 'ardly know 
what to make of 'im. We thought as he'd got some 
little game on. But, Lord ! as soon as he begun to ask 
questions, we saw 'ow it was with 'im." 

" He's been here more than once, I suppose? " 

" More than once ! 'As he been a-telling you as he's 
only been 'ere once? " 

The oiler stopped abruptly as if the grossness of the 
falsehood with which he was crediting my fellow-pil- 
grim took his breath away. But before I could 
explain that no such statement had been made, the 
oleaginous one recovered his gift of speech. 

" That's the best thing 'e's done yet. Ho ! Ho ! 
9 129 



130 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

Ho ! He was pretty good last night, but that beats 
all." 

I hesitated to ask for an explanation, but before the 
struggle between dignity and curiosity which began to 
rage in my bosom had come to a head, the oiler resumed 
his parable. 

" He told us as he wanted to take some measurements. 
That's easier said than done in a shop like this, with- 
out special orders ; but he stuck to it. So we told 'im, 
that if he come between twelve and one some night, 
all the roads 'ud be clear. He said 'e'd come last 
night. I'm off dooty as soon as the 11.42 goes out, 
but I was 'ere right enough when he comes in at about 
a quarter after twelve. I'd have stayed for 'im, if it 
had meant six. He was in evenin' dress, with a soft 
hat and a grey overcoat. Me and Jack and the two 
'Arrisons was all ready. We goes on to Number 3, 
and he pulls out a ball of string. — ' We're just opposite 
the parcels office,' sez he to me; 'you take this and 
'old it against the outside corner, and give a pull when 
you're there ! ' I takes the end, and goes across to 
Number 6, and presently he feels the jerk I give it. — 
' Are you there ? ' he 'oilers. Jack had to stop that, or 
there' d a been an end of the game in no time — shout- 
ing here after midnight ain't included in our regulations. 
And I'm blest," — here the oiler became convulsed — 
*' I'm blest, if he didn't come cuttin' round, to make 
sure as I got the right place. — ' The south side of that 
shed marks the building-line,' sez he ; ' you 'old the 
string there, and I'll see to the hangle.' Back he trots, 
and I see 'im take the ball away from Jack, who was 
a-'olding it for 'im, and I feels 'im fiddling about with 
it. — ' I'll peg it down now,' sez he. He'd forgot they'd 
told 'im to speak low. Then the string goes taut ; and 
the next minute, he comes flying back to me, to make 
sure as I 'adn't shifted. Wonderful nimble he is for 'is 
time of life ! — ' You can let go now,' sez he ; ' it's all 
right.' I took 'im across with me that time, to save 'is 



IN GOLDSMITH'S FOOTSTEPS 131 

legs ; and there was 'is penknife stuck in the platform, 
with the string hitched round it, and 'im a-wipin' his 
forehead. He was fairly chronic last night, and no 
mistake ; but it wouldn't be right to shut 'im up — would 
it now?" 

" Certainly not," was my emphatic answer. 

" They're much better left alone when they're like 
that. My wife's father he's just such another, but it's 
religion with 'im. Nine days out of ten he's as sensible 
as I am ; though, mind yer, he may like to say grace 
rather often at Sunday's dinner, and a man don't care 
to be made sing 'ymns when he's reading the paper after- 
wards. The Missus sometimes flies at 'im for it, woman- 
like, you know ; but I don't 'old with it. — ' Let 'im 
alone,' sez I, ' as long as he's 'appy. Time enough to 
check him when he wants to go out street preachin' ' — 
that's what he gets up to sometimes." 

" Doesn't he preach well ? " 

" No worse than others ; rather better if anything." 

The oiler said this with some shortness. What right 
had I to suppose that his wife's progenitor was in any 
way inferior to other fathers-in-law ? In a moment, 
however, he had recovered his good humour. 

" But who wants to see a respectable old gentleman 
makin' an image of 'imself ? It ain't often as things 
reaches that pitch ; but when they do, there's only one 
way of managing 'im — you must get 'im in liquor." 

The strangeness of the oiler's remedy for a diseased 
brain took me by surprise. He saw this, and his tone 
became painfully apologetic. 

" Yes, I know it ain't nice, but it can't be helped. 
It runs into money, for one thing, and it's bad for the 
children, if they see 'im when I bring 'im 'ome. But 
it has to be done." 

" Tut, tut, tut ! " said I, with great solemnity ; " but 
surely my friend doesn't give any trouble." 

" Lord, no ! It's as good as a play to see 'im march 
into the place. I don't say, mind yer, as somebody 



132 KAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

oughtn't to keep an eye to 'im — like as you might 
be doing now — but it wouldn't be right to shut 
'im up. He's free with his money, but I dessay he's 
got plenty, and it's only right to let 'im be." 

At this moment the subject of our conversation re- 
appeared, evidently in high feather. He had got rid 
of his bodyguard. 

" Was the show a good one ? " I asked, as we made 
our way out of the station. 

" It was a superannuated weighing machine. The 
mass of metal was considerable." 

" Are you interested in such things? " 

" Not in the least ; but the officials here were kind 
enough to insist on my seeing it. They evidently 
think I'm rather peculiar — even a little cracked, pos- 
sibly." 

" ' Who'd 'a thunk it ? '" I ejaculated. 

Mr. Fairfield recognized the quotation from " Uncle 
Eemus," and laughed with great enjoyment. 

" So long as they don't obstruct me, I don't care 
what they think. They're a good-natured, civil, hard- 
working set of men, your railway servants. It's strange 
that some of them should have to wear such odd gar- 
ments as india-rubber collars and leather ties." 

By this time we had emerged into the Old Bailey, 
and had stepped inside the open entrance of the goods- 
depot. An employe in uniform bolted out of a hutch 
on the right, eager to challenge us ; but no sooner did 
he espy Mr. Fairfield than his official severity vanished. 
He made a salute that was half military and half 
comic, and retired into obscurity. 

" The east end of the Court came to about there," 
said the welcome guest, pointing to the middle of the 
open space. " There was a passage running into it 
from the Old Bailey, just on the other side of that 
hoarding ; and the building line on the north side fol- 
lowed the south face of that parcels office." 

" This particular court has been smashed up and 



IN GOLDSMITH'S FOOTSTEPS 133 

improved off the face of the earth," he went on, " so 
I've had a bit of trouble to locate it ; but comparing an 
old map — Rocque's plan of 1746, for instance — with 
the last ordnance survey, it's simply staggering to find 
how exactly the boundaries of most places have been 
preserved. Now, a few yards lower down, there's a 
little place called Bishop's Court, which in Goldsmith's 
time was parallel with Green Arbour Court. The rail- 
way has cut off the end of it and the steps that used 
to run down to Seacoal Lane, and I don't suppose 
there's a brick of the old houses left ; but the building- 
line is exactly as it was a hundred and fifty years ago. 
The City must keep a precious sharp eye on the front- 
agers ; they're never slow to steal a bit of the roadway 
if they get half a chance." 

" Is there nothing left of the old access from Fleet 
Market to Green Arbour Court? " I asked. 

" We can get round to the west of the court in two 
minutes," was the somewhat evasive answer; "Fleet 
Lane lies only a few yards below us on the right, and 
we can slip through it into Farringdon Street in no 
time. Nowadays Fleet Lane is the only channel of 
communication between Fleet Market and the Old 
Bailey ; in Goldsmith's time, foot passengers could 
make their way through Green Arbour Court and 
Bishop's Court as well, but vehicles could only go by 
way of Fleet Lane. Here it is ! " 

" It's not much to look at," he went on, after we had 
turned the corner, " but it's interesting to me. It's an 
old thoroughfare, and it's curious to remember that the 
slope down which we're now sauntering was the ap- 
proach to the Eiver Fleet ; and the roadway winds in 
and out so unaccountably that I firmly believe it was 
once the course of some tributary streamlet." 

"I suppose that is the south end of the lane which 
ran at the back of Goldsmith's house," said I, pointing 
to the words Seacoal Lane written up at the entrance 
to a turning on the left. 



134 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

" Oh, no ! That's modern. The old lane ended at 
Fleet Lane — just on our right. This one may have 
been made before the improvements, as a continuation 
of the old one. Perhaps the railway had to make it. 
It runs in a v^ide curve ; and I believe it follows the 
eastern boundary of the Fleet Prison. But I'm not 
sure; life's not long enough to allow one to clear up 
points like that." 

We passed through the railway arch which spans 
Fleet Lane ; and could see Farringdon Street a little 
way ahead of us. The Memorial Hall and its extension 
occupy the rest of the south side of the lane, and oppo- 
site them is a row of two-storeyed houses of a moderate 
antiquity. 

" Those houses were there in Mr. Pickwick's time, 
and so was the queer little close that has an entrance 
under one of them," said Mr, Fairfield. " It's called 
New Court and it was built some time in the latter half 
of the eighteenth century. By then people had begun to 
understand that a little light and air was not amiss, even 
in a town. Those Fleet Lane houses have a small interest 
of their own. They formed part of the Eules of the Fleet ; 
perhaps they are now all that is left of the old houses 
v^thin the Eules. You know, I suppose, that debtors 
could on payment of a fee obtain the privilege of living 
in the Rules instead of inside the jail. They called 
them ' prisoners on Eule ' — ' Eulers ' was the slang 
name. Madeline Bray's father was a ' Euler ' of the 
King's Bench; and, by-the-by, Sam Titmarsh was a 
'Euler' of the Fleet." 

I was interested in the old houses for another reason. 
During our stroll from the Old Bailey it had occurred 
to me that we were approaching the scene of the Fleet 
marriages, and I felt pretty sure that when Lord Hard- 
wicke's Marriage Act was passed almost every house in 
Fleet Lane was an illegal marriage office. 

"How old should you say those houses are?" I 
asked. 



IN GOLDSMITH'S FOOTSTEPS 135 

** Certainly a hundred years ; probably more." 

" If those houses are more than a hundred and fifty 
years old, I'll wager that pretty nearly every one of 
them was a grog shop in 1753, with a Fleet parson on 
the premises." 

"I'd forgotten about those marriages. I must get 
Besant's ' Chaplain of the Fleet ' and re-read it. That's 
the best way of getting a bird's-eye view of a bygone 
state of manners." 

" It's the pleasantest way," I conceded. 

" It's my way anyhow. When I've read the book 
again, I shall come back here, and see if I can ferret 
out any of the places that Besant mentions. That's my 
way too. I've a great fondness for Besant ; and whether 
I find anything or not, I shall have the satisfaction of 
feeling that I'm following up his tracks. He's been 
here ; there aren't many places in London where he 
hasn't been." 

" Do those buildings cover the site of the Fleet 
Prison?" I asked, when we had turned the corner 
and were standing before the Memorial Hall. 

*' Oh, no ! The prison didn't quite reach Fleet Lane ; 
there was one house between, and at right angles to 
this house there was a row of houses, running eastward 
up the lane. They were opposite the houses we've 
just been looking at, and were like them, I suppose. 
The prison front began, I take it, just beyond that second 
window from the corner, and it extended a good bit 
farther south than these buildings do — farther than the 
present Seacoal Lane in fact. And these buildings 
don't go back nearly so far as the prison did ; the rail- 
way runs over a good slice of the old yard. The Belle 
Sauvage Inn used to stand just behind here. I was de- 
lighted to come across it on an old map." 

" I believe you would be delighted to come across a 
tavern anywhere — even on an old map." 

" We certainly have investigated a good many ancient 
hostelries together." 



136 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

The statement that my friend made with so much 
relish was only too true ; the public-houses into which 
I had been dragged against my will in the course 
of our topographical investigations had indeed been 
numerous. 

" A reluctance to enter taverns in the pursuit of use- 
ful knowledge is no credit to a topographist," he added, 
in tones of grave rebuke. 

" Do you study them much in Chicago ? " 

Mr. Fairfield pursed up his lips. " There is a pre- 
judice on the subject in my city. Perhaps it's because 
none of the taverns are of much historic interest. Here 
it's quite different ; and besides, the traditions of your 
profession are in your favour." 

" Pepys is my first authority," he resumed, after 
waiting for a moment for the question that was not 
forthcoming : " when Pepys consulted Mr. Walpole, his 
attorney, they went to an alehouse to talk matters over. 
That shows what the custom was in Charles the Second's 
reign. Now we'll go to George the Second's. An emi- 
nent attorney named Parnell — afterwards a baronet — 
begged as a favour to have his portrait introduced into 
that drunken Election picture of Hogarth's. He wasn't 
ashamed of appearing in an inn — 'Singing a comic song 
too ! Now we'll skip three-quarters of a century. That 
brings us to Mr. Soloman Pell — a very worthy solicitor, 
according to Sir Frank Lockwood. Look what a good 
example he set ! He did all his business in a bar 
parlour." 

" But my clients aren't fond of bar parlours." 

" Of course not — always excepting the elderly gentle- 
man in the white waistcoat. He seemed pretty much 
at his ease on that high stool until he caught sight of 
you." There was a very merry twinkle in my friend's 
eye as he said this. 

The incident to which he referred was a painful one. 
The gentleman in question was a client whom I had 
unexpectedly encountered in an ancient inn in the 



IN GOLDSMITH'S FOOTSTEPS 137 

Borough one Saturday afternoon. He was a Pharisee 
of venerable exterior, and among the godly his reputa- 
tion for austerity stood high. The meeting had been 
very embarrassing on both sides. 

" And after all he had good reason for being there — " 
continued Mr. Fairfield, musingly — " a sudden dizziness 
such as he described to us must have been most alarm- 
ing — it was a wonder the man had been able to stagger 
up the courtyard. You, on the other hand, had no ex- 
cuse to offer. I almost blushed for you." 

I made no comment ; but the reminiscence was too 
fascinating to be dropped unfinished. 

" What astonished me most," he went on, " was 
your friend's rashness in flying to tobacco as a restora- 
tive. Alcohol of course was quite en regie ; but a cigar 
with it seemed out of place. You may perhaps recol- 
lect that he dropped it — he seemed to do it almost 
furtively— and I restored it to him. His young-lady 
friend across the bar thought I'd done something 
humorous. She was condescending enough to wink at 
me." 

I remembered the whole incident with perfect clear- 
ness ; and I also remembered how, then and there, I had 
registered a vow to be decoyed into no more public- 
houses. 

" Why were you so pleased to find the Belle Sauvage 
on the map ? " I asked, as soon as he had run down. 

" It was old Weller's head-quarters. It gave him his 
territorial designation ; he was known in the profession 
as Mr. Weller of the Belle Sauvage. When I discovered 
that part of the inn used to abut on the back of the 
prison, I felt sure it was there that he excogitated his 
design for smuggling Mr. Pickwick through the gates. 
A piano without works was to be introduced into the 
prison, and Mr. Pickwick was to conceal himself in it 
with his hat and shoes on. I feel no doubt that the 
original conception flashed upon Mr. Weller's brain as 
he sat smoking in the Belle Sauvage and contemplating 



138 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

the prison wall. When he revealed the plot to Sam 
he gave a cabinet-maker part of the credit; but you 
may depend upon it the man did no more than perfect 
the mechanical details — the ingenious apparatus for 
giving Mr. Pickwick air, for instance. The legs were 
to be made hollow, you may remember." 

" Fairfield," I said, as we were making our way along 
Farringdon Street towards the Viaduct, " this street 
puzzles me. I always supposed it was modern ; it's so 
wide, that one could have sworn it was a modern 
improvement, cut through some old neighbourhood. 
But on both sides there are old houses, and it's apparent 
that the building-line now is the same as when they 
were built. That house over the entrance to Wheat- 
sheaf Yard, and the houses on each side of it, look to 
me at least 200 years old. But how comes a City street 
of this width and straightness to be so old? " 

" The Great Fire made a clearance here, and I think 
the street was laid out by the City Corporation just 
after that. You must remember the Fleet ran along it 
then ; and boats could go up as far as where the Via- 
duct stands now. After the Fire, the river was cleaned 
out and enlarged. It was a bit straightened too, I think, 
and each side was made up at an immense expense. 
There were several bridges — one was opposite Fleet 
Lane. Pennant says that huge wharves were con- 
structed all along the river. I think this must have been 
one of the greatest improvements that followed on the 
Great Fire. The street was renamed the New Canal, I 
believe." 

" And what happened to it ? " 

" It was a failure. The stream was too languid, I 
suppose, and the canal got choked up with filth. You 
remember what the ' Dunciad ' says about it. It was 
called Fleet Ditch in those days. The Corporation 
arched it over in George the Second's reign, and built 
a market over it, and the whole street was called 
Fleet Market until it got its present name. That was 



^ ^, , , . i.^ g g ^ „ g ^H-. i'"' ." g g":ag^F ^^^»S7 




THE FLEET DITCH OF THE " DUNCIAD." 

(From Warbiirton's " Pope," 1751.) 

" Here strip, my children, here at once leap in, 
Here prove who best can dash through thick and thin.' 



IN GOLDSMITH'S FOOTSTEPS 139 

when the market buildings were cleared away, I sup- 
pose." 

By this time we had almost reached the Viaduct. 
At the corner of a narrow turning on our right Mr, 
Fairfield stopped. 

" This is Bear Alley," he said. " Goldsmith must 
have passed up and down it times out of number ; it was 
the way from Fleet Market to Green Arbour Court. 
That wall which blocks up the end is part of the railway 
depot. In Goldsmith's time the street was about a 
quarter longer than it is now. It curved a trifle to the 
left, just beyond where the walls stands, and led into 
Seacoal Lane. The flight of steps lay almost exactly 
opposite. Goldsmith could get to his room in two 
minutes from the corner where we're standing — it 
was almost a straight line. One of Stow's editors 
says that the ascent to Green Arbour Court was by a 
great many steps, or a pair of stairs, made through 
London "Wall. That was in 1720. A pair of stairs 
meant two flights of stairs, so I suppose there was a 
landing to break the steepness. But how on earth the 
City wall could ever have been west of the court, I don't 
understand." 

" Did Washington Irving come this way to Gold- 
smith's house ? " 

" Undoubtedly. He came from the direction of 
Westminster. He says he was conducted by a friend, 
who led him through a variety of singular alleys and 
courts and blind passages, before they came out upon 
Fleet Market. They traversed this and turned up a 
narrow street to the bottom of a long steep flight of stone 
steps, called Break-neck Stairs. These, the friend told 
him, led up to Green Arbour Court. That friend was a 
man in buckram, a mere literary artifice ; I'll be bound 
Washington Irving ferreted out the way for himself. 
But why on earth did he make out that Fleet Market 
was a difficult place to find ? It lay then just as it does 
now, with Holbom at one end and Fleet Street at the 



140 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

other. The difficulty would have been to miss it. 
What had he to do with alleys, and blind passages, 
and such-like ? " 

Mr. Fairfield spoke with some irritation, as he looked 
up from the scrap of memorandum in his hand. Prob- 
ably it annoyed him to think how easy it was to find 
Green Arbour Court in 1820, and how light Washington 
Irving's labours had been as compared with his own. 

" I daresay he went a roundabout way on purpose 
— to make the story more picturesque," I suggested. 

Mr. Fairfield sniffed. " I don't see how he and his 
friend could have got through blind passages, anyhow. 
A blind passage can't be open at both ends." 

" Possibly they were a little pressed for time ; so they 
took a battering-ram with them. Is the nationality of 
the other gentleman mentioned? " 

Though Mr. Fairfield could deign no reply to a jest 
at the expense of his country, his irritation vanished, 
and he even condescended to smile. 

"Are there any old houses here?" I asked, as we 
stood looking down Bear Alley. 

" None as old as Goldsmith's time, I think. In 
Newcastle Street, which is the next turning on our 
right, there are several ; but none here, I'm afraid. But 
the street itself is interesting in a way. Goldsmith must 
have been up and down it scores and scores of times." 

" But wasn't his shortest way out of the court through 
the other end, into the Old Bailey ? That would be the 
way of the booksellers at any rate." 

" I agree ; but whenever he wanted any victuals 
wouldn't he make for the Fleet Market ? Surely that 
was the emporium for the whole of this district." 

I admitted the reasonableness of this ; for I remem- 
bered that when Lord Eldon was living with his Bessy 
in Cursitor Street, in the early days of their marriage, 
it was to Fleet Market that he used to run for his six- 
pennyworth of sprats. And this was only a few years 
after Goldsmith's sojourn in Green Arbour Court. 



IN GOLDSMITH'S FOOTSTEPS 141 

My friend was well pleased to have his conjecture 
thus verified. " It seems to bring one near Goldsmith 
if one knows that he used this street when he went 
a-marketing," he exclaimed. " I think he must have 
been fond of what Mrs. Tibbs called a nice, pretty bit 
of ox-cheek, piping hot. There's a juiciness about the 
phrasing that seems to come from the heart. I shouldn't 
be surprised," he continued, as he took a farewell glance 
at the little street, "I shouldn't be surprised if this 
corner public-house were an old-established place. It's 
more than probable that there was a tavern here in his 
time, and that he found it handy. I should very much 
like to come across some one who remembered those 
steps. They were there after 1830 I know ; and it's 
quite possible they were there till early in 1865. It's 
just occurred to me that the people inside this tavern 
may be able to tell us something." 

I let this suggestion pass. The tavern question 
had been closed, never with my sanction to be re- 
opened. 

"I can see an elderly man behind the bar," an- 
nounced my companion, who just then was bending 
forward and craning his neck in order to command a 
view through the swing-door. " Doesn't it seem al- 
most a pity to lose the chance of asking him a few 
questions? I've just caught his eye." 

" Then you can easily beckon him out." 

" He mightn't like that." 

"Why bother about him then? If the man won't 
put himself out a little to oblige a fellow-creature, he 
must be a sordid wretch. What would his evidence be 
worth?" 

Mr. Fairfield was not disposed to debate matters on 
this high level. " But you could wait outside," was all 
he said. 

" That's just as bad as going in," I protested; "I 
can stroll off and leave you at liberty, if you like." 

" Oh, no, I'll drop in some evening, by myself — if I 



142 KAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

feel inclined to." And as Mr. Fairfield gave expression 
to this proviso, he laughed aloud. 

"If Macaulay's life had been prolonged for a few 
months he'd have come to look at those steps," he ob- 
served, as soon as he had recovered his wonted gravity. 
^' He made a slip about them in the article on Gold- 
smith which he wrote for the ' Encyclopaedia Britan- 
nica,' about 1857. He called them ' a dizzy ladder of 
flagstones,' and he said they and Green Arbour Court 
had long disappeared. He died at the very end of 
1859, and in April, 1860, some one wrote to ' Notes 
and Queries ' to say that both the court and the steps 
were still in existence. The man was wrong as to the 
court — that had gone some thirty years before ; I 
daresay he was right enough as to the steps." 

" Goldsmith moved to Wine Office Court when he 
left here," he remarked, as he put away his memo- 
randa ; "it was a rise in the world for him. I know 
the house has been pulled down, but we might just 
take a look at the place itself ; it's quite close. I 
wonder if he went there by this way." 

" That's barely possible," I answered. " I don't sup- 
pose his belongings were anything serious, but he must 
have had something to carry with him — a few clothes 
and books at any rate. I daresay a very small truck was 
quite sufficient ; but even that couldn't conveniently be 
got down Break-neck Steps. By all means let us assume 
that it was so if you wish it ; but to suppose that Oliver 
chose the steps, and carried one end of the truck while 
the proprietor carried the other, when it might have 
been comfortably wheeled into the Old Bailey, and 
from there to Fleet Street, by way of Fleet Lane, 
seems to me almost fantastic." 

" Not a bit of it ; that truck was carried down the 
steps," asserted my friend, with as much conviction as 
if he had witnessed the operation. " It seems fantastic 
to me to suppose that Oliver Goldsmith could take it 
any other way. But for present purposes we'll assume 



IN GOLDSMITH'S FOOTSTEPS 143 

that he went by Fleet Lane. We can pick up his 
tracks at the Memorial Hall, and follow that truck to 
the new lodgings." 

We made our way up Fleet Street, and through 
the narrow tunnel which gives access to Wine Office 
Court. 

" Those three first houses on the left are the old 
ones. Newbery's house, in which Oliver lived for two 
years, was, I think. Number 6 ; three houses higher up. 
I suppose all the houses were in the same style. Those 
three will be torn down before long, I'll be bound. 
Perhaps, considering all things, one ought to be thank- 
ful to have seen so much — even at the eleventh hour. 
Twenty years hence there won't be a house of decent 
age within a mile of the General Post Office, except 
perhaps in an Inn of Court, The Inns of Chancery 
are past praying for, more's the pity. Those judges 
and barristers of yours who set the ball rolling five-and- 
twenty years ago, when they sold Serjeants' Inn, de- 
served to be broken on the wheel." 

So spake Mr. Fairfield in great heat. He had been 
rather prone lately to break loose on this subject ; the 
sale of Clifford's Inn had filled him with a wrath that 
seemed unquenchable. 

" Serjeants' Inn was the beginning of it," he wailed ; 
" and look what has followed ! New Inn's gone ; 
Clement's Inn belongs to a joint-stock company, and is 
an offence to the eye ; Barnard's is shut up — all that's 
left of it ; Furnival's has disappeared, and Staple con- 
tinues to exist only at the mercy of the Prudential Assur- 
ance Company. Not that I complain of them ; they've 
done well by it ; and I only pray that they may hang 
on to the old place. But as for Clifford's Inn ; I can't talk 
about the sale of that — its unspeakable. The members 
of that Inn, sir, were trustees for posterity." 

" They have consented to part of the proceeds of the 
sale being devoted to the advancement of legal edu- 
cation," suggested the present scribe, with some unction. 



144 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

" For all I know Judas may have meant to employ 
part of the thirty pieces of silver in the same way," 
retorted the stranger within our gates. 

"Let us have a peep at Johnson's house before we 
go away," he said a little later; "we may find that 
pulled down when we next come along here." 

It was not many paces to the top of Wine Office 
Court, and from there to Gough Square only a stone's- 
throw. The square of to-day is a different place from 
the shady close that Johnson knew ; the trees are all 
gone, and with the exception of his house and the 
house that stands at right angles to it all the brick and 
mortar is modern. 

We stood before the house, and read the tablet placed 
there by the Society of Arts. It was satisfactory to see 
that the brickwork showed no sign of decrepitude. The 
door stood half-open ; so we mounted the steps and 
peeped in. We retired with melancholy faces. The 
glimpse which we had obtained of the staircase and the 
panelling was not reassuring; it told of neglect and 
decay. 

"I do wish this house could be preserved," said my 
friend, as he stepped off the pavement to obtain a better 
view of the attic storey, " it's the last of Johnson's 
London houses ; or, if not the last, the only existing one 
whose authenticity is beyond question. His wife died 
in one of those rooms ; and I daresay the very garret 
in which he worked with his assistants when the Dic- 
tionary was a-making can be identified. I wonder 
whereabouts Levett's quarters were. It will be a dis- 
grace to both you and us if this house disappears. The 
taverns are all gone ; I saw the last of them — the Essex 
Head — when I was over here years ago. I think an 
effort might be made to secure this old house. If every 
reader of Boswell gave a shilling, the value would be 
subscribed three times over." 

" If Carlyle's house has been preserved," he went on, 
" surely this house oughtn't to be sacrificed. We needn't 



IN GOLDSMITH'S FOOTSTEPS 145 

throw stones at Carlyle ; but he was a poor wind-bag 
compared with Johnson. Folks don't seem to burn 
much incense to him even now, and who can say that 
posterity will care two straws about him, or his house 
either, in another hundred years ? " 

" A scheme for selling that house and buying this 
one with the proceeds would hardly work," suggested I, 
in all meekness. 

Mr. Fairfield seemed half-disposed to turn and rend 
me, but he thought better of it. When he spoke again 
he had returned to his right mind. 

" I'm glad Carlyle's house is safe — it's a particularly 
foolish business to gird at him just here, considering 
what he said about Johnson ; but the truth is I get mad 
when I think of this place going. I've had Goldsmith 
in my mind a good bit lately ; and you can't get any- 
where near him without running up against old Sam. 
He was a good friend to Oliver Goldsmith. Do you 
remember how he comforted him after they hissed the 
* Good-natured Man ' ? The old bear gave his Goldy a 
hug now and then ; but that was nothing. He was big 
enough to appreciate Goldsmith ; that was the great 
thing. Johnson was too truthful a man to say a word 
more than he felt, even about a dead friend ; and I 
don't believe there was any one else, except Burke 
perhaps, of whom he would have written, as he wrote 
to Langton — ' let not his frailties be remembered ; he 
was a very great man'." 



10 



146 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

POSTSCEIPT 
POOR LITTLE HOUSES OF CHANCERLE 

" Within the libertibs. . . . The Lstnbk. Temple, the Middle 
Temple . . . houses of Court. Cliffords Lstne . . . Tela. vies 
Inne . . . FuRNivALS Inne, Barnards Inne . . . Staple 
toNE . . . houses of Chancerie. Without the liberties 
— Grayes Innb . . . LiNCOLNS Inne . . . houses of Court. 
Clements Ljne, New Inne, Lyons Inne ; house of Chan- 
cerie." — Stow. 

The Inns of Court have a swelling port. 
And they are a goodly four : 

The Templefi twin, and Lincoln's Inn, 
And Bacon's home of yore. 

The Inns of Court are of good report. 
Their hitchen fires are aglow. 

Their butchers thrive, their bakers wive, 
Their vintners cap them low : 
So are they all ; but what are ye. 
Poor little Houses of Chancerie ? 

Ye little Inns were pleasant spots, 

And fondly one recalls 
How comely were your garden-plots, 

How cozy were your halls ; 
Your students there for many a year 

Had held the mimic court, 
And there your Ancients set their cheer, 

And chuckled o'er the port. 

Eight were ye in the days of Stow, 

And eight did ye remain 
Till poor old Thavie's had to go 

In Farmer George's reign. 
The buyer wrought his wicked will ; 

He razed it to the ground — 
John Thavie's house on Holborn HUl, 

That had been so renowned. 

Our king had passed his wedding-day 

Before another fell : 
Rat-haunted Lyon's, tucked away 

Behind the Holy Well. 
And none too soon the summons came : 

Unhallowed, unrevered, 
A byeword, and a thing of shame. 

Poor Lyon's disappeared. 



IN GOLDSMITH'S FOOTSTEPS 147 

And now the eight were only six : 

Sequestered nooks were ye, 
With dormer-lights and weathered bricks, 

And pleasant greenery, 
Save only hapless Furnival's 

Where Peto's hoof had been. 
And garden-plots and mellow walls 

Had vanished from the scene. 

But later years have hurried on 

With ruin and decay ; 
Poor Furnival's is dead and gone, 

And New is swept away : 
To each in turn the spoiler came, 

And others share the fall, 
For Clement's Inn is but a name, 

And Barnard's but a hall. 

To Clifford's Inn we yet may fare ; 

A mournful joy, indeed. 
For rue is Clifford's only wear ; 

Its fortunes run to seed. 
But out-at-elbows though it be, 

And dank from end to end, 
'Tis fragrant with a memory 

Of Dyer and his friend. 

And soon those time-worn houses there. 

The hawthorns at the gate, 
And all the plane trees in the square 

Must bow them to their fate. 
Alack ! Alack ! the foe is nigh 

To wreck their ancient peace ; 
An evil legend stares on high — 

To LET ON BUILDING LEASE ! 

Poor little Inns, a thriftless race 

Your children proved to be ! 
But Staple is in goodly case 

Though strangers hold the fee : 
As parcel of their scrip and stock 

They have thee at their call. 
But still the louvre weathercock 

Looks down upon the hall ; 

The old oak gate that Johnson knew 

Still closes on the Bars, 
The high-peaked gables, not a few. 

Point upward to the stars ; 



148 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

And yet, though all is trim and fair. 

And all is stout and strong, 
A boding presence hovers there. 

And whispers : " But — how long f " 

The Inns of Court are of good report, 
Their kitchen fires are aglow. 

Their butchers thrive, their bakers wive, 
Their vintners cap them low ; 

But ye have neither food nor fire, 

And never an ounce of plate : 

Poor old Stow in the long-ago 

Little thought ye would sink so low. 

That had such a good estate ! 

Fallen are ye, and woe is me. 
Poor little Houses of Chancerie ! 



CHAPTEE XI 

WE BEGIN TO RAMBLE ABOUT EDINBURGH 

" We must make a beginning," quoth Mr. Fairfield. 
He spoke like one in heaviness, as he turned from the 
window and made towards a side-table where the guide- 
books lay. 

For more than an hour we had been sitting in 
silence, gazing from a window of our hotel in Princes 
Street, Edinburgh, upon the wonderful prospect spread 
before us. It was a bright fresh morning in September. 

"Whither?" said I. "Anywhere you like, mind; 
but no argument." 

Mr. Fairfield slowly unfolded a map, and for the next 
%five minutes I watched him pore over it. 

" We TYiust make a beginning," he said again, as he 
looked up; and there was a note of helplessness in 
his voice this time. 

"But where?" 

" Holyrood," said he. 

" What is the way ? " 

" You go across the North Bridge — that's the bridge 
round the corner, where the post-office is — and take the 
second turning on the left. That's the High Street — 
the High Street of old Edinburgh," he exclaimed with 
growing cheerfulness, as he followed the route with a 
pencil — " and that — ^man alive ! that leads into the 
Canongate." 

My own map was unfolded by this time and I was 
checking his directions. Of the manifold associations 
of that old street I knew no more than the average 
tourist ; but vague and blurred though one's knowledge 

149 



150 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

might be, there was something in the name that smote 
upon the inner chords and made them tremble. 

I confess I have no very clear recollection of om: 
pilgrimage to Holyrood that morning. I know that, 
notwithstanding the plainness of the route, we went 
astray in the High Street, and wandered into the Cow- 
gate. But High Street, Canongate, or Cowgate, what 
did it matter ? We were upon enchanted ground all 
the time ; for every dismal close or side street called up 
some slumbering recollection of Scottish history or the 
Waverley novels. On our later visits, the poverty and 
squalor that showed themselves on all hands struck us 
very unpleasantly ; but on our first morning in old 
Edinburgh, we were oblivious of everything but the 
associations which haunted every yard of the way. 
Looking back upon that morning, I have nothing but 
a vague general recollection that, speaking to one 
another but rarely, we mooned about for hours, well 
content to let our guide-books go hang, and to leave 
details for after consideration. I know, however, that 
we identified Moray House and Huntly House, and the 
Tolbooth, and that we sauntered awhile among the 
tombs in the Canongate churchyard. I feel sure, too, 
that we strolled into White Horse Close and inspected 
the building, which was once the White Horse Inn, and 
that the guide-books enabled us to identify it as the 
lodging-place of Waverley and Fergus Mclvor. 

Even my recollection of Holyrood itself, as we saw it 
that morning, is vague and confused. We dawdled 
about the tombs in the Chapel Koyal, and made our 
way to that old part of the palace to which all the 
world goes — the rooms in which Mary and Darnley 
lived during their brief union, the closet which saw the 
attack on Bizzio, and the staircase which saw his death. 
I remember that while we were in the closet, my friend 
quoted a line from " Johnny Armstrong's last good 
night "— 

^' And ran him through the fair body." 



WE RAMBLE ABOUT EDINBURGH 151 

Boswell, he said, had overheard Johnson mutter this 
line when they were in Holyrood together. 

Before we made om: second visit to the palace we 
had pored over many guide-books ; and, equipped with 
the knowledge thus obtained, we were able to take an 
interest in the mouldering furniture that the rooms 
contain. In the Queen's bedroom my thoughts turned 
to Hampton Court, and Mr. Fairfield, whose store of 
desultory reading is as well-ordered as it is inexhaustible, 
told me — reminded me, was his way of putting it — of 
Macaulay's meditations in the bedroom of Louis XIV 
at Versailles. 

There are two old state beds in Holyrood : Mary 
Stuart's is one of them. The other is in the ante- 
chamber, and if the guide-books speak the truth it has 
been slept in by Charles I, and by the young Chevalier, 
and his victor, "William Duke of Cumberland. 

On our second visit, my companion lingered for a 
long time in the closet where Eizzio was stabbed. He 
measured it carefully with his eye ; and from the way 
in which he peered out of the window upon the drainage 
works in operation in the courtyard just below, and 
craned his neck to follow the contour of the turret in 
which we stood, I felt sure he was endeavouring to take 
an observation of the room's position, with reference to 
the general plan of the building. 

" Wasn't it in 1566 that Mary and Darnley lived 
here ? " he asked, as we paused on the threshold of the 
staircase, and turned round to have a last look at the 
state-rooms. 

" There or thereabouts." 

Mr. Fairfield stepped back into the ante-chamber, 
and stood musing, with his eyes fixed on the panelling. 

" It's a far cry from here to that dog-hole at Stratford 
we went over two years ago," he said at length. " It 
suddenly occurred to me, just now, that Shakespeare 
was a baby when Mary and Darnley were living 
here." 



152 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

" There was a baby here too," I observed. " James I 
was only a year or two younger than Shakespeare." 

" True ! And it's interesting to remember that the 
two babies met later on. James I — one ought to call 
him James VI here — was an unspeakable person in 
some respects — I'm not referring to his hatred of to- 
bacco — but he had wit enough to enjoy Shakespeare's 
plays, or old Ben was a liar." 

I looked at my fellow-tourist for an explanation ; I 
had no notion of what he was referring to. 

" Don't you remember Ben Jonson's lines to the 
memory of his beloved master William Shakespeare ? 
He calls Shakespeare the Swan of Avon, and wishes he 
could see him once again on the banks of the Thames, 
to make those flights which had so pleased Queen 
Elizabeth and the king : I think I remember the verse : — 

Sweet Swan of Avon ! What a sight it were 
To see thee in our waters yet appear, 
And make those flights upon the banks of Thames, 
That so did take Eliza and our James." 

" That window in the second storey of the left-hand 
turret is the window of the supper-room," said Mr. 
Fairfield as we stood in the courtyard scanning the 
front of the old wing ; " and that window to the right 
of it, between the two turrets, is the window in the 
queen's bedroom. Didn't the size of that supper-room 
surprise you? " 

"It certainly was much smaller than I expected." 

" Small isn't the word for it ; it's microscopical. 
There's some mistake about that story. I was reading 
it in one of the guide-books last night ; and remember- 
ing something of the place, I felt a bit staggered. Now 
I've seen it again, I'm certain there's a mistake. Eizzio 
was no more stabbed in that cupboard than I was." 

" The story has passed current for some three hundred 
and fifty years," I hinted. 

" That doesn't make it true. Now listen ! that guide- 



WE RAMBLE ABOUT EDINBURGH 153 

book begins the story by saying that, on the night of 
the murder, six persons supped in that little hutch. 
Can you, as a reasonable man, ask me to believe that ? 
Even if they supped without a table, six persons would 
find that room a tight fit. And according to the story 
there was a table; for some one upset it. Now, sir, 
picture to yourself that room with a fire in it — it hap- 
pened in February, remember — and six persons having 
supper at a table, and at least one servant in attendance. 
You picture that, and tell me whether it's possible or 
impossible." 

" It certainly is a very small place." 

" Nothing could make me believe it," he asserted 
scornfully. 

" Now you listen," said I ; " that story is copied 
word for word from the 'Tales of a Grandfather'. 
What do you say to that ? " 

Mr. Fairfield was silenced for the time being. " I 
really think Scott must have let his love of the pictur- 
esque overpower his sense of proportion," he said at 
length, " but as he must have seen the room scores of 
times, I can't set my judgment up against his." 

My friend's change of front did not surprise me ; for 
he had lately been giving proofs of the reverence in 
which he held Sir Walter Scott. It was nothing but the 
magic of the great Wizard that had drawn us over the 
Border. A few weeks earlier, Mr. Fairfield had an- 
nounced to me his intention of visiting Abbotsford and 
its neighbourhood ; and subject to his agreeing to stay 
for a few days at Edinburgh en route, I had accepted 
his invitation to go with him. It seemed ridiculous to 
be so near the city, and not see something of it. He 
readily met my wishes ; though I could see that in his 
eyes it was mere vanity and vexation of spirit to at- 
tempt such a task in a few days. Had he been an en- 
tirely free agent, he would perhaps have pitched his tent 
in Edinburgh for a month or two ; had such a stay not 
been feasible, he would have avoided the city altogether. 



154 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

During the railway journey from King's Cross, our 
conversation had more than once turned on Sir Walter ; 
and I had been not a little surprised to find how 
minutely my friend had studied the records of his life. 
The veneration for the man, which these talks revealed, 
was no surprise ; for my own poor reading had taught 
me that, with a knowledge of Scott's character, love 
and reverence must needs go hand in hand. 

It was past six o'clock before we had reached Edin- 
burgh ; and by the time we had settled down in our hotel 
and dined, the evening was far advanced. "When I went 
to Stratford with Mr. Fairfield in 1901, he expressed a 
wish that we should have a private room at our hotel ; 
and, in support of this extravagance, he alleged that 
the smoking-rooms in provincial hotels were always so 
uncomfortable that reading or talking in them was out 
of the question. I had no fault to find with this plan, 
though I felt a little surprised at a, cosmopolite like my 
friend putting it forward ; but when we had taken 
possession of our exclusive quarters, and his trunk had 
disgorged the travelling library that it contained, I 
understood why he had spoken so evilly of smoking- 
rooms. Some place where that supply of books would 
be accessible, and at the same time out of the reach of 
strangers, was almost a necessity. At Edinburgh a 
private room had been taken without any objection on 
my part, and after dinner to this sanctum we repaired. 
As compared with the supply of literature that my 
companion had piled upon one of the tables, his Strat- 
ford collection had been a mere nothing. As he lay 
curled up in a big armchair, with a volume of Lock- 
hart's " Life " and a long, black cigar, I turned over a 
book here and there at random. I chanced to come 
upon a picture of Scott's house in Castle Street ; and 
knowing that it could not be far off, I bethought me 
that a stroll to it would be no bad way of helping 
one on towards bedtime. A glance at my companion 
satisfied me that I had better go alone ; he looked so 
comfortable that it seemed a sin to disturb him. 



WE RAMBLE ABOUT EDINBURGH 155 

It was perhaps half an hour after leaving the hotel 
that I reached Castle Street. The distance was trifling, 
and I had found the street upon my map without diffi- 
culty ; but my progress along Princes Street had been 
leisurely, and I had examined more than one turning^ 
on my way. In the clear moonlight the statue of 
Chalmers stood out inky black ; and, just beyond it, 
the stone bow-fronted house in which Scott lived for so 
many years was easily found. 

After mounting the steps, to make sure by a glance 
at the number that I had made no mistake, I was 
about to descend and examine the front when, on the 
other side of the road, I caught sight of a figure that 
seemed familiar to me. A moment's inspection put 
the matter beyond all doubt ; it was the tall spare form 
of Mr. James C. Fairfield that was leaning against the 
railing opposite. There was nothing surprising in his 
being there ; but the fact that he had not seen me was 
a little odd. In one hand he held a scrap of paper ; 
the moon gleamed on his pince-nez, and was bright 
enough to show that he was gnawing the pencil which 
he held in the other hand, and that though he was 
looking towards the house, his gaze was directed sky- 
ward. 

I strolled across the road ; but so deep was his ab- 
straction that I was within a yard or two of him before 
he looked up and recognized me. And then he started 
like a guilty thing, and, quick as lightning, he shufiled 
the scrap of paper into his pocket. 

" Making a few more notes ? " I asked cheerfully. 

But alas ! when I said this my words belied my 
thoughts ; for I knew full well that no mere note-making 
had been his occupation ; and it was nothing to the 
point that he caught at my suggestion and mumbled out 
something that might have been yes. Had there been 
a shadow of doubt in my mind he should have had the 
benefit of it, for I liked the man and respected him. 
But the cruel logic of the facts left no room for reason- 



156 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

able doubt — I had disturbed him in the act of composing 
poetry. 

We stood side by side, gazing upon the front of the 
house, and neither thought it necessary to explain how 
he came there. 

" There's no more interesting house in the whole 
world," said Mr. Fairfield, breaking the silence, " and 
it's satisfactory to find it looking strong enough to last 
a thousand years. Scott lived here for a very long time. 
It had sheltered him, he said, from the prime of life to 
its decline. The crash came in January, 1826 ; he left 
here in March and the place was sold a few months 
later. It was a bitter pang to him when the house 
went ; it was almost as dear to him as Abbotsford it- 
self. There is an inscription on it somewhere, giving 
the dates when he came and went." 

We moved across the road, and were able to make 
out the substance of the lines, cut in the stonework of 
the front. 

" He was twenty-six when he came here, and fifty- 
four when he left," said my fellow-tourist ; " just think 
what a slice of his life that time represents ! Of course, 
he wasn't always here, but he had to be in Edinburgh 
when the courts were sitting, and we may take it that 
he was here for more than six months out of every 
twelve. That front room, on a level with the top of 
the steps, was what Lockhart calls the dining-parlour. 
The study — Scott's workshop — was just behind, and 
from it a Venetian window opened on the little patch 
of turf where he buried Camp, the old bull-terrier, one 
moonlight night. Mrs. Lockhart told her husband that 
her father wore the saddest expression of face she had 
ever seen in him, as he smoothed the turf down over 
the grave, and that on the plea of the death of a dear 
old friend, he broke a dinner engagement for that day. 
And the prettiest part of the story comes at the end — the 
host was not at all surprised when he learned who the 
dear old friend was. Camp is shown in that ugly por- 



WE RAMBLE ABOUT EDINBURGH 157 

trait that Eaeburn painted of Scott — the portrait of him 
sitting down, in Hessian boots. How fond he was of 
dogs ! How fond Dickens was, too ! " 

" So are most ordinary persons," I suggested. 

" True, but not in the way Scott was. He treated 
them like fellow-creatures. When I was reading 
Forster's ' Goldsmith ' the other day, I came on a say- 
ing of Horace Walpole's about dogs, that made me 
think of Scott. Just at the time there was a hydro- 
phobia panic raging, and dogs were being slaughtered 
wholesale. ' The dear, honest, good-natured, sensible 
creatures. Christ, how can anybody hurt them ? ' was 
what Walpole said. When I read that, my first thought 
was, how it must have gone to Scott's heart — I'll be 
bound he knew of it and quoted it sometimes." 

" I've just materialized a floating something connected 
with that front door; it's been swaying about in my 
mind for the last few minutes," resumed Mr. Fairfield. 
"One night the Ettrick Shepherd left this house in a 
state of inebriation, and Scott at parting gave him sage 
counsel to avoid the dangers of the streets. It's not 
very difficult to picture Scott holding that door open, 
and watching James Hogg make a cautious passage 
down those steps. I'm afraid Scott had a smile on his 
face ; our grandfathers were more alive to the comic 
aspects of drunkenness than we are." 

"Could any one come across Hogg, drunk or sober, 
without smiling? " I asked. 

" He certainly was a queer fish ; the more one reads 
about him the odder he seems. Lockhart is not at all 
hard on him. His way of summing him up is deliciously 
ambiguous — ^ In pace requiescat,' says he. ' There will 
never be such an Ettrick Shepherd again.' " 

" Isn't there some story, that when Hogg was intro- 
duced to Mrs. Scott she was indisposed ; and because 
she was lying on a sofa, Hogg thought good manners 
required him to sprawl on another? " 

" Oh, yes, that's the story ; and it goes on to say that. 



158 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

as Scott addressed her as Charlotte, Hogg, as the even- 
ing wore on, did the same. I'm afraid his demeanour 
in polite society was generally a trifle swinish. Some- 
where in the ' Jom^nal ' Scott refers to him as ' the 
honest grunter '. Lockhart tells a very funny story 
about him. When Hogg and Scott were at strained 
relationships — the Shepherd was, of course, to blame — 
he wrote to Scott ; and he relieved his wounded dignity 
by varying the usual formulas of epistolary communica- 
tion — that's Lockhart's phrase, I think. He began the 
letter ' Damned sir,' and wound up * Believe me, sir, 
yours with disgust '," 

" Dickens breakfasted in that house in 1841 ; I should 
dearly like to go over it," said my friend wistfully, as he 
ht a cigar. 

" Perhaps we can manage that. I see from the brass- 
plate, a firm of Writers to the Signet have it now. 
They wouldn't refuse a professional brother from across 
the Tweed the small courtesy of going over their offices, 
if they were approached in the right way. I can write 
them a note to-morrow." 

Mr. Fairfield was sorely tempted, but his strong 
objection to force himself upon strangers held him back. 

" No," he said, " there must be plenty of tourists who 
present themselves with that request. I'd rather not 
march through Coventry with that gang." 

" You might call at the office in the character of a 
client. Would there be any harm in your asking them 
to make your will, for instance ? " 

With owlish gravity he pondered over this suggestion, 
and with owlish gravity he answered it. 

" The fact of my being an American citizen might 
raise a difficulty ; but I can see an easy way of making 
your excellent plan feasible — you can go and have your 
will made, and I'll go with you, to see fair." 

" That's a very happy thought," I exclaimed with 
enthusiasm. 

" Possibly," he continued, " a member of that firm 



WE RAMBLE ABOUT EDINBURGH 159 

might think it a little odd if an English solicitor stepped 
up out of the street and asked to have his will made, 
unless some sort of an explanation were forthcoming. 
You must prepare yourself for that ; ' a bit o' brain work 
and a little ingenooity ' will do wonders. It will give 
me great pleasure to hear you produce that explanation. 
It will give me even greater pleasure to see you pay the 
little bill of your professional brother on this side of the 
Tweed." 

" I'll think it over," said I. 

" I'm glad that house is in legal hands," observed Mr. 
Fairfield, as we strolled homeward. " I don't suppose any 
good Scot would do it violence, but it's doubly safe with 
the lawyers. They must feel a special pride in him ; 
he was such a child of the law : — 

the destined heir 
In his soft cradle, to his father's chair. 

He was in the law, and of the law, all his life. Each 
branch has good cause to be proud of him — the bar, be- 
cause it was his calling, and the other branch because 
of the picture he drew of his father, not only in ' Red- 
gauntlet,' but in the scrap of autobiography which Lock- 
hart sets out." 

" That quotation was a shade wide of the mark," he 
went on ; " for, as a matter of fact, his father designed 
him for the bar, rather than his own branch of the law. 
But Scott served out an apprenticeship in the old man's 
office, and that was what I was thinking of," 



CHAPTEE XII 

xMR. FAIRFIELD AND "BONNIE DUNDEE" 

On our second visit to Holyrood, we ferreted out the 
quaint little house over which^ according to tradition, 
some of Eizzio's assassins made their escape from the 
palace. It is called Queen Mary's bath, and the guide- 
books say there is a spring of clear water within it. 
For some reason or other, the bath-house is railed off 
from the approach of the vulgar ; to what use it is put, 
or by whom it is tenanted, the present writer knoweth 
not. 

Not far from the bath-house, the frontier of the 
sanctuary, which, until quite recent times, the liberty 
of the palace afforded to debtors, is, unless the guide- 
books speak falsely, marked out by a line of stones. 
Leaning against a wall and smoking a pipe, I watched 
my friend's efforts to find this boundary. 

His movements in the roadway, as almost on his 
knees he scrutinized the surface through his pince-nez, 
and at the same time kept an eye upon approaching 
vehicles ; and his despair when he could gain no illu- 
mination from the loafers whom his proceedings had 
attracted, and who showed by their answers, couched 
in a Doric hardly intelligible, that they had no know- 
ledge of the thing he sought for, gave my tobacco a 
flavour and an incense not its own. 

" If only I could see a policeman ! " he wailed, when, 
worn out by his exertions, he had given up the search 
as a bad job, and had returned to my side. 

His faith in the Edinburgh police-force was un- 
160 



" BONNIE DUNDEE " 161 

bounded. Whenever we were in any topographical 
difficulty, it was his practice to make a bee-line for the 
nearest constable and submit the problem for his con- 
sideration. Nine times out of ten the application was 
successful, and our feet were set in the right way. The 
police of Edinburgh are a fine body of men physically 
speaking, and their dealings with my enthusiastic com- 
panion showed them to be as intelligent as they were 
stalwart. 

Only in the matter of their attitude towards drunken- 
ness did he find ground of complaint against them. 

" This is nothing less than a disgrace to civilization," 
he asserted one Saturday afternoon, as we stood in the 
Canongate, and made way for workman after workman 
to lurch past us on unsteady legs. 

" Why on earth are these beasts allowed to get in 
the way of decent passengers ? " he demanded, after a 
reveller had jerked him into the roadway. 

" Why don't you ask the police? " 

Mr. Fairfield's abhorrence of drunkenness is strong 
and fervent, but he shrank from this. 

" They must be fond of a drappie themselves," he 
grumbled, "unless" — and here the grave zest which 
always heralded a quotation proclaimed itself in his 
tone — " unless they're like the deacon — ' rest and bless 
him ! ' — they lo'e their friends and ken we a' have our 
frailties." 

He made this plunge into the vernacular with a fine 
show of confidence, but I noticed that he took care to 
reach no other ear than my own. 

" They act under orders," said I. 

"Of course ! of course ! " he admitted, readily enough. 

" But this, really, is too bad," he blazed out, a little 
later. By this time we had reached the North Bridge ; 
and a few paces in front of us, an honest toiler, weary 
of his efforts to stagger homeward, had sunk upon the 
pavement and resigned himself to slumber. He was an 
artisan of lofty stature, and as he lay due east and west, 
11 



162 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

with his feet in the gutter, the disturbance to traffic 
was considerable. 

But even as Mr. Fairfield spoke, a policeman strolled 
up to the prostrate one, and laid a gentle hand upon 
his arm. For an instant a lack-lustre eye rested on the 
constable ; and the next moment the man's inebriation 
had vanished and he was on his legs, speeding south- 
ward. 

" Good heavens ! " ejaculated my companion, " when 
they do move it means business." 

After our first morning in the Canongate, all Mr. 
Fairfield's longing to get to Tweedside had disappeared. 
Day after day went by, but the fascination of the grey 
city held us captives within her bounds. On the even- 
ing of our arrival the view of Princes Street, with the 
Calton and Arthur's Seat on the one hand, and the 
Castle Rock on the other, and between them the 
wooded slopes that climbed up to the Old Town, had 
made us stare and gasp. The majesty of the prospect 
never waned ; but what was even more wonderful was 
to stroll out of our hotel before breakfast, and to find, 
as soon as we had turned into George Street, the sun 
glittering on the distant sea and lighting up the long 
landscape that stretched beyond it. The views from 
the Castle and Arthur's Seat were more varied and 
much more spacious, but they never moved us in the 
same degree. Even they lay close at hand; but the 
view from George Street was on our very threshold. 
In its proximity to the heart of a great city lay its 
unique and never-failing charm. 

The more we saw of the tourists whom we came 
across, during our rambles in the streets, or at meal- 
times in the hotel, the more we scorned and pitied 
them. To tear about Edinburgh, guide-book in hand, 
for a day or two, and then depart breathless to do 
the like elsewhere, seemed such very poor sport. 
But we ourselves did not altogether disdain the injunc- 
tions of the guide-books, and decently and in order we 



" BONNIE DUNDEE " 163 

inspected most of the lions of the metropoHs. Thanks 
to our bicycles, it was easy work to extend our rambles 
to Leith, Musselburgh and Portobello. Having seen 
them, we were cheered by a consciousness of duty done ; 
but we felt no desire to pay any of them a second 
visit. 

It was our misfortune rather than our fault that we 
did not see Hawthornden. We made a start in that 
direction one morning ; but the wind was dead against 
us, and it was so strong that bicycling was out of the 
question. We took the machines home, and made a 
fresh start on foot ; but by the time we reached Eoslin, 
we were so tired that even Mr. Fairfield admitted that 
any more walking that day would be too much of a 
good thing. 

"I particularly wanted to see Hawthornden," he 
grumbled, as, after lunching and going over the chapel, 
we sat smoking on a tree that overhung the Esk. " I 
don't care so much about Drummond or Ben Jonson, 
but I've got a note that James Payn took Dickens 
there, and that Dickens was very humorous over the 
dungeons. I wanted to see those dungeons." 

" You wouldn't care for the place if you saw it," said 
I philosophically ; " such is the way of the world. If 
we hadn't come to Eoslin, you'd be burning to see the 
chapel. As it is, you have seen it and you've been 
bored by it." 

"It was rather a poor shillingsworth," he admitted. 
" The detail of that carved work was a weariness to the 
eye, and that old story about the apprentice and his 
master was a weariness to the flesh." 

Roslin Chapel needs no man's good word. We spoke 
of it as we found it, but the tourists in whose company 
we had gone over it had been loud in its praise ; perhaps 
we were a little peevish that afternoon. 

We jolted back to Edinburgh in a brake. The phy- 
sical discomforts of that journey are fresh in my mind, 
but I was more fortunate than Mr. Fairfield. I shared 



164 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

a seat with a gentleman who did nothing worse than 
crack nuts with his teeth ; my poor friend sat by an 
enthusiastic wine merchant, hailing from Newcastle, 
who poured into his ear a long description of the Forth 
Bridge, and enjoined him, not once but over and over 
again, to fly and examine it forthwith. 

But though we did not ignore the lions of new Edin- 
burgh and the country round about, Auld Beekie 
was our load-stone rock. It was in or about her mile of 
roadway, extending from Holyrood to the Castle, that 
most of our time was spent. There were not many of 
the wynds and closes of the Old Town that we did not 
explore. It was our custom to cast ourselves adrift in 
the High Street or the Canongate, and ramble about 
until we grew weary ; and on the whole I do not think 
my enthusiasm fell far short of my companion's. The 
man who, without some stirring of his imagination, can 
look upon the balcony of Moray House, from which, 
according to tradition, the Argyles jeered at Montrose, 
must be a dull creature ; and moving along those 
historic ways, it calls for no great exercise of the fancy, 
to figure to one's inward eye the progress of the Great 
Marquess from the Watergate to the Tolbooth Prison, or 
to follow up the High Street the shadows of Dr. John- 
son and Boswell, as, on the night of Johnson's arrival, 
they walked from the White Horse in Boyd's Close to 
James Court, arm in arm. 

" Some English travellers would have thought this 
place a bit confined," I said, as we stood in that court 
one afternoon, " but I don't suppose Johnson saw any- 
thing amiss with Boswell's quarters." 

" Even if he did, he was hardly in a position to throw 
stones," was my friend's instant rejoinder. 

"Why?" I asked. 

" They were at least as good as his own. He was 
living in Johnson's Court, then — don't you remember 
how he used to call himself Johnson of that ilk ? Bozzy 
could have given him a Boland for his Oliver if he had 



" BONNIE DUNDEE " 165 

found fault with this court. And just think what a 
view there was from the back windows ! " 

My friend and I came to Edinburgh in a state of 
primitive ignorance as regards the topography of the 
city. The hbrary that he brought with him was not of 
much assistance so far as details were concerned ; for 
it related chiefly to Sir Walter and the novels, and such 
information as our guide-books contained was soon ex- 
hausted. We were, however, so fortunate as to come 
across Mr. John Geddie's " Eomantic Edinburgh," and 
it is only just to acknowledge the debt of gratitude that 
we owe to it. Evening after evening, Mr. Fairfield 
would lie in his big chair poring over the pages, pencil 
in hand ; and when at length he laid the book down 
with a weary hand, it was always with a benison upon 
the writer ; and his next move was to draw up to the 
table, and make notes for future use out of doors. 

As a rule, my friend was too considerate to disturb 
my studies or meditations by bursting forth with scraps 
from the book which he happened to be reading ; but 
now and again " Romantic Edinburgh " stirred him to 
a degree that demanded the immediate sympathy of a 
fellow-creature. 

" Just listen to this about Blackfriars Street, which 
used to be called Friars Wynd," I remember his exclaim- 
ing one evening, as a prelude to his reading the follow- 
ing passage : — ■ 

" But the most dramatic and sinister scene in the history of this 
picturesque alley — which has been improved into a commonplace 
modern street — was when, late one evening in February, 1567, 
Mary Stuart passed up it with blazing torches and archer guard, 
after visiting her sick husband at Kirk of Field, while Hepburn, 
Earl of Bothwell, and his emissaries, carrying the gunpowder, 
slipped past by the next alley of Todrick's Close." 

"That was the night Darnley was blown up," he 
went on; "we must find Blackfriars Street and Tod- 
rick's Close to-morrow ; they can't be far from the 
palace. I wish we knew more about those streets near 



166 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

the gates. Whenever we go there, I'm always reminded 
of that capital bit of Stanley Weyman's about the back 
streets near the old French court — it's in ' The Man in 
Black,' I think." 

It was upon the second day of our sojourn in Edin- 
burgh that we came upon the Grassmarket. Chance 
led our footsteps to it after dinner. We had wandered 
up Princes Street as far as the Caledonian terminus ; 
and, without any definite goal in view, we had turned 
down the Lothian Eoad, and had thence drifted east- 
ward. We were both smoking, and for some time we 
strolled along without saying anything. After nightfall 
Mr. Fairfield is prone to saunter along, with his hands 
clasped behind him, and his unbuttoned grey overcoat 
floating abroad on either side; the erectness which 
marks his carriage during the daytime disappears, and 
something not far removed from a slouch takes its place. 
He was moving along in this wise that evening, when 
his eye caught the name of a street we were just passing 
on our left. In an instant he had straightened himself 
up ; and rigid and alert, he was staring at the name 
through his pince-nez. 

" West Port ! " he ejaculated. " This is indeed a 
discovery." 

I looked at him without comprehension ; and to my 
surprise he burst forth into " Bonnie Dundee " : — 

'' Come fill up my cup, come fill up my can. 
Come saddle your horses and call up youi' men. 
Come open the West P-o-o-ort, and let me gang free, 
And it's room for the bonnets of Bonnie Dundee ! " 

Even at the beginning there was a rhythmical swing 
in his voice ; and before he had gone far, he was sing- 
ing — openly and without shame, he stood that evening 
at the corner of the West Port, and warbled the refrain 
of " Bonnie Dundee " . His singing voice was deep and 
not at all unpleasant, but, oddly enough, there was in it 
a faint suspicion of a nasal twang from which his speech 
was quite free. 



'' BONNIE DUNDEE " 167 

We made our way along the West Port. It was 
anything hut an aristocratic thoroughfare; and it led 
into an open space, of great length in proportion to its 
width, and bordered by tall houses, which in the dark- 
ness looked gloomy and degraded. There were a good 
many people about ; all seemed poor, and some were 
manifestly of the submerged tenth. 

Mr. Fairfield made straight for a policeman. 

" What is this? " he asked. 

" The Grassmarket." 

" The Grassmarket ! " The constable had given the 
penultimate syllable at least one additional r ; in his ex- 
ultant repetition of the word, Mr. Fairfield gave it three 
or four. 

" I might have guessed it ! " he ejaculated. " What 
else could it be ? " 

He seemed to expect no answer ; and for a while he 
stood contemplating the market-place, and whistling 
" Bonnie Dundee " under his breath. 

When he moved forward, he had fallen into a brown 
study. His walk had no spring in it ; his hands were 
clasped behind him, and his shoulders were hunched 
up almost to his ears, 

" There's no doubt about it; not a shadow of doubt. 
It was all cobble stones then, I expect." He was 
evidently thinking aloud ; and the next instant he burst 
afresh into song : — 

" With sour-featured Whigs the Grassmarket was crammed, 
As if half the West had set tryst to be hanged ; 
There was spite in each look, there was fear in each e'e, 
As they watched for the bonnets of Bonnie Dundee. " 

Here he paused ; but before I could make the observa- 
tion which lay so ready on my tongue, he struck up 
again : — 

" These cow]s of Kilmarnock had spits, and had spears. 
And lang-hafted gullies to kill Cavaliers ; 
But they shrunk to close-heads, and the causeway was free 
At the toss of the bonnet of Bonnie Dundee. 



168 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

" I always boggled at those ' close-heads ' ! I thought 
it meant that the Whigs laid their heads together. But 
it means the entrances to the closes that run out of this 
place." 

We were walking in file when he said this, for the 
pavement was somewhat crowded : the dwellers in the 
Grassmarket and its neighbourhood were taking the air 
that evening. As he stopped and turned to speak to 
me, he seemed so elated in an absent-minded way, 
and so unconscious that he was doing anything out of 
the common, that I had not the heart to make myself 
unpleasant. I took means, however, to increase the 
interval between us, as soon as he had resumed his 
saunter. I am not more self-conscious than other men ; 
but in the Grassmarket that evening I had felt uncom- 
fortable, as I threaded my way through an astonished 
populace, hard on the heels of one who, as he slouched 
onward, grave and personable above the ordinary, fixed 
his eyes on vacancy and sang " Bonnie Dundee " through 
his nose. 

We had paraded all round the Grassmarket before 
Mr. Fairfield had entirely abandoned his singing robes, 
and returned to his right mind. 

" You know what we've been doing? "he inquired 
as soon as I was once again at his side. 

Five minutes before, I could have seized this opening 
for a stinging repartee, and could have done justice 
to it ; but by now I had recovered my temper, and I 
merely burst out laughing. This surprised him ; but 
in a moment he was able to take an accurate mental 
review of his late proceedings. 

" I was not referring to that high-class concert," he 
said. There was a note of apology in his voice, and he 
spoke with his eyes half-shut and a slight tightening of 
the lips. He was evidently ashamed of himself. 

" ' The throstle cock's head is under his wing,' " said I. 

The penitent laughed. " I was a little carried away, 
I'm afraid. Till we came to the West Port, I had 



'' BONNIE DUNDEE " 169 

never associated ' Bonnie Dundee ' with Edinburgh 
streets. We've been following up, backwards, the way 
he went when he rode out to raise the West for King 
James. I've an impression that he started from the 
Parliament House ; that's where the Lords of Conven- 
tion would be sitting. He came by the ' sanctified 
bends of the Bow '. I don't know where they are — we'll 
find them to-morrow — and he went to the Castle to 
consult with the Duke of Gordon. That must be quite 
near — perhaps one can see it." 

I forget whether, just at that moment, we were 
standing in the West Port or the Grassmarket ; but 
wherever it was, Mr. Fairfield turned to look about 
him. 

" Good heavens ! " he exclaimed, pointing upwards, 
" what's that ? " 

My eyes followed his direction, and I saw, high above 
us, a cluster of lights showing in the heavens like a con- 
stellation. It seemed just over our heads. 

" It's the buildings at the top of the rock," he said, a 
moment later ; and he gave vent to a whistle of astonish- 
ment. 

I, too, was astonished. The lights hung so high and 
were so directly overhead, that they seemed to belong 
to the firmament. No daylight view could have brought 
home to us the height and sheerness of the Castle rock 
with the like force. 

" Claverhouse climbed up the west face — that's the 
side that looks towards the Lothian Boad — and the 
Duke met him at the sally-port. We must find that out, 
too. The ' kittle nine-steps ' that Scott used to climb 
when a boy are somewhere near it, I think." 

" You seem to have got bitten with ' Bonnie Dundee,' " 
said I, using a phrase that was often in his mouth. 

" I plead guilty. It's been running in my head ever 
since I was a boy. There's no reciting ' Bonnie Dun- 
dee ' — a man must sing it or let it alone. Is there 
another song in our tongue of which you can say the 



170 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

like ? " he went on, now at white heat. " Man alive ! 
I'd give everything I've got, including the clothes I 
stand up in, to have written a song like that." 

A moment later he was smiling at his own enthu- 
siasm. " I suppose every one has his favourite song," he 
said ; " mine carries me away because there's more go in 
it than any one else's ; I'm like Mr. Kipling's war-horse." 

He was very merry by this time. As he spoke he 
scrutinized my face, as if doubtful of his ground, and 
seeing that I was tickled, he had the audacity to break 
once again into melody : — 

"^ By the brand on my shoulder^ the finest of tunes 
Is played by the Lancers^ Hussars, and Dragoons ; 
And it's sweeter than ' Stables ' or ' Water ' to me — 
The Cavalry Canter of Bonnie Dundee ! " 

" You are indeed bitten with it," said I, laughing. 

" Mon ! " he protested, with great solemnity, as he 
laid a hand upon my arm, " it's waur than that — I'm 
fair grippit wi' it," This was his first independent ex- 
cursion into the wilds of the vernacular. 

" The ' bends of the Bow ' were the windings of the 
West Bow," he remarked, later in the evening, as he 
rose from the table where he had been looking into the 
guide-books, and made for his armchair. " It ran from 
the High Street to the Grassmarket. It's gone now, 
and a curve called Victoria Street occupies part of it. 
We'll look at it to-morrow. I can't make the song fit 
with the ' Tales of a Grandfather,' but we'll stick to 
the song." 

" I've often wondered," he continued, " how Scott 
came to perpetrate such an enormity as to make 
' cramTned ' rhyme with ' hanged ' — 

With sour-featured Whigs the Grassmarket was crammed, 
As if half the West had set tryst to be hanged. 

I know he was careless, but he had a good ear, and 
I don't believe there's such another atrocity in all his 




THE OLD WEST BOW. 
(From a drawing by Caitcnnole.) 



' BONNIE DUNDEE " 171 

poetry. I suppose he really did write 'crammed,' but 
wasn't it a mere slip of the pen ? " 

" What did he mean to write then — is there any 
feasible rhyme ? " 

" I've thought of ' thranged,' but I'm not Scot enough 
to 'knowlwhether the word was possible. I'm pretty sure, 
though, that Burns calls a throng a thrang, so perhaps 
there's the verb, too." 

" But could such a mistake escape notice? " 
' "1 think so. Don't you know that ' gods ' has been 
printed for ' birds ' over and over again in Lovelace's 
' To Althea,' just because there was the misprint in the 
first edition ? And there's a misprint — at least, I feel 
sure it is — in another very famous poem, which has 
never been corrected." 

There was mystery in Mr. Fairfield's tone as he 
spoke of this poem, and he looked into my face, as if 
half-unwilling to be put to the question. I could see 
that some important disclosure was trembling on his lips. 

" I'll promise not to write to 'Notes and Queries,' " 
said I. 

" I'm sure you won't," he answered in all simplicity. 
" Well, it's in George Herbert's ' Virtue ' . You won't 
recognize it under that name — he wasn't happy in his 
titles. It's the beautiful thing that begins — 

Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright, 
The bridal of the earth and sky. 

Now the second verse is always printed thus — 

Sweet rose^ whose hue angry and brave, 
Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye. 

Do you see anything wrong? " 

" The first line is a little jolty," I admitted, after I 
had made him recite all four verses twice over. 

" Good ! that's it. What George Herbert wrote was 
this — 

Sweet rose, whose angry hue and brave. 



172 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

Can any one doubt that the inversion is a printer's 
error? " 

" It never struck me, till we got into the Grassmarket, 
how clearly Scott saw the things he described — the 
things he invented, I mean," said my friend after an 
interval ; and he laid down a volume of the poems as he 
spoke. " Lockhart says, somewhere, that he used to 
write with a smile of conscious inspiration on his lips. 
I don't wonder at it. Just think what a complete 
picture he had in his mind of what the Grassmarket 
looked like that day, and how he makes you see it too. 
Do you remember that pretty touch of the young girls 
siding with Claverhouse because he looked so bonnie ? — 

As he rode down the sanctified bends of the Bow^ 

Ilk carline was flyting and shaking her pow ; 

But the young plants of grace they looked couthie and slee, 

Thinking — Luck to thy bonnet, thou Bonnie Dundee ! " 

Lying back in his chair, with the text of the song 
before him, he could quote without lapsing into melody. 

" There's a fine touch in the last verse," he resumed, 
" which shows how he felt what he was writing about — 
penny-a-liners call it visualizing, I think. I mean the 
blowing of the trumpets and the clashing of the kettle- 
drums when the column moved off — that's a reminiscence 
of Scott's yeomanry days — 

He waved his proud hand, and the trumpets were blown, 
The kettle-drums clashed, and the horsemen rode on. 
Till on Ravelston's cliffs and on Cherraiston's lee. 
Died away the wild war-notes of Bonnie Dundee. 

And I've thought of another instance. It's that line in 
* Young Lochinvar ' — ' And the bridegroom stood dang- 
ling his bonnet and plume '. Doesn't that bring the 
poor creature before your eyes, just as a picture 
would?" 

" I told you that ' Bonnie Dundee ' had been run- 
ning in my head ever since I was a boy," he went on. 



'^ BONNIE DUNDEE " 173 

" That's true enough, but I don't think it fairly took 
hold of me, until I read in Lockhart how it was 
written. I'll read it to you if you don't mind. I can 
find it quicker in the ' Journal '. It was early in 1826, 
I think." 

" It was near the end of 1825 that Scott learned 
there was danger in the air," he explained, the vol- 
ume now in his hand; "and, a little later, ruin 
stared him in the face. But just before Christmas 
some good news came. He had a gleam of hope, and 
he wrote the song. This is what he says about it 
under date of 22nd December, 1825 : — 

"The air of 'Bonnie Dundee' running in my head to-day, I 
wrote a few verses to it before dinner, taking the key-note from 
the story of Clavers leaving the Scottish Convention of Estates in 
1688-9. I wonder if they are good. Ah ! poor Will Erskine, thou 
could'st and would'st have told me. I must consult James Bal- 
lantyne who is as honest as was Will Erskine. But then though 
he has good taste too, there is a little of Big Bow-wow about it. 
Can't say what made me take a frisk so uncommon of late years as 
to write verses of freewill. I suppose the same impulse which 
makes birds sing when the storm seems blown over. 

He says when the storm seems blown over. I don't 
think he was really very hopeful ; but he cheered up, 
and he wrote ' Bonnie Dundee '. He never wrote any- 
thing very joyful after it. The crash came within a 
few days." 

" It's good to read about him in his adversity in his 
own words," said Mr. Fairfield, a little later, as he closed 
the " Journal " with a sigh ; "it may teach a man how 
to bear himself when trouble comes upon him : trouble 
in mind, or body or estate ; it came to Scott in all three 
— but it's not good to talk about it." 



CHAPTEE XIII 

MR. FAIRFIELD WIELDS THE VERNACULAR 

Notwithstanding the glamour of the Old Town, the 
airy vistas of the New, the majestical station of Edin- 
burgh as a whole, and the glorious prospects that it 
commanded, Mr. Fairfield would have torn himself 
away from it after a few days' sojourn, but for its as- 
sociations with Sir Walter's life and work. It was as 
Scott's own romantic town, the place which in his love 
stood second only to his own Tweedside, that Edinburgh 
appealed most strongly to the pilgrim from Chicago; 
and during our stay there, Scott was always uppermost 
in his thoughts. 

After the night of our arrival we fell into the custom 
of strolling out together in the evening ; and without a 
word as to our direction being said on either side, our 
feet always turned westward, and sooner or later we 
stood before 39 Castle Street. We rarely spoke to one 
another, or looked at the house, as we paced up and 
down on the other side of the way, smoking. I daresay 
some of the dwellers in the neighbourhood used to 
wonder what moved the spare elderly tourist and his 
companion to choose such a short stretch of paving stones 
for their evening stroll. 

" Scott's entry in his journal, when he heard that an 
offer had been made for this house, is very characteristic," 
said Mr. Fairfield, in the course of one of these prom- 
enades. " You can see how he feels parting with it, 
though he tries to comfort himself by saying that as he has 
bade good-bye to his poor wife, so long its kind and courte- 

174 



WIELDING THE VERNACULAR 175 

ous mistress — she had been dead only six weeks — he need 
not care about the empty rooms. But he adds, ' yet it 
gives me a turn,' and he winds up — ' Never mind, all in 
the day's work'. Sophia Scott was married to Lock- 
hart there ; I suppose in the drawing-room — that room 
on the first floor." 

" Poor thirty-nine," as Scott twice calls it in his 
journal, was not the only one of his dwellings that we 
visited. Thanks to Lockhart and the ' Journal,' sup- 
plemented to some extent by Mr. Geddie's book, we 
were able to trace Sir "Walter's footsteps from one end 
of Edinburgh to the other. We saw the tablet on 
Number 8 Chambers Street, which marks the approxi- 
mate site of his birthplace ; and we journeyed to George 
Square, where under his parents' roof he passed his boy- 
hood and early manhood, and to the lodgings at 108 
George Street, whither he carried home his bride. The 
house Number 3 Walker Street, which he took for the 
winter of 1826, and which he described as comfortable 
and convenient, stands to-day as it stood in his time, 
and looks none the worse for wear ; but the lodgings at 
6 St. David's Street, which he went to in May, 1826, 
just after the crash — the place where " the insects were 
voracious," and the cheese was a " choke-dog concern " — 
are now no more ; and when we sought out " Mrs. Job- 
son's house," 6 Shandwick Place, his last fixed residence 
in Edinburgh, we felt grave doubts as to its authenticity. 
It seemed impossible that the house we saw could date 
back to Sir Walter's time. We ferreted out, too, 75 
George Street, which was his mother's home during her 
widowhood, and 6 AthoU Crescent, where, in February, 
1831, he made his will, and where he wrote a great 
deal of * Count Eobert,' with, alas, a pen that stammered 
egregiously. 

Of all Scott's dwelling-places. Number 25 George 
Square pleased us most. The stone houses of this 
square have a warmer tint than is common in Edin- 
burgh, and their want of uniformity is not unpleasing 



176 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

to the eye ; it only adds to the comfortable, homely air 
of the place. When the original of Saunders Fairford 
moved his household there, and subjected himself, by so 
doing, to a wrench which his son compared to a divorce 
of the soul from the body, " a self-contained house " in 
George Square must have formed a strange contrast to 
the apartments in Auld Beekie where the child was 
born. Even to modern eyes the Square is more than 
usually fortunate in its surroundings ; for its own green 
enclosure is a handsome open space, and close to it 
stretch the long airy levels of The Meadows. 

" It was from that door that the father and mother, 
attended, as the tutor Mitchell says, by their fine young 
family of children and their domestic servants, used to 
sally forth on Sundays for the Old Grey friars Church," 
said Mr. Fairfield, after he had stood for some time 
gazing at the front of Number 25. "I must have a 
look at the back before we go ; you may depend upon 
it Scott's bedroom was at the back. The ground floor 
would be taken up by the old man's office ; the first 
floor would be the living rooms, and the old people 
would have the big front bedroom on the second floor. 
The boys would have a big bedroom at the back." 

" Who can doubt that the room was the second-floor- 
back ? " said I with gentle sarcasm. " Give me a little 
time, Fairfield, and a few more of your certainties, and 
I will tell you what the pattern of the wall-paper was." 

" I always like to look at the back of an interesting 
house as soon as I've seen the front," he went on, with- 
out regarding me. " The first difficulty is to get round 
to the back ; and when you've got there, and the house 
is one of a row, it's no easy job to make sure which it 
is. I've spent hours in London trying to identify the 
backs of houses," said Mr. Fairfield, in the tone of a 
veteran, who recounts the toils and struggles of his prime, 
" and more than once I've had to ask a shopkeeper 
to let me have a look out of one of his back windows. 
I don't mind this if they sell anything you can buy ; 



WIELDING THE VERNACULAR 177 

but even that's difficult sometimes. I remember once, I 
had to make a choice between a fried-fish shop, a marine- 
store, and a small pork butcher's, where there was no- 
thing in the window but some cold blocks of seasoning, 
standing in congealed grease. That was at Hoxton." 

" Which did you choose ? " 

" At first," he answered, with a gravity that showed 
how much he enjoyed the recital of his experiences, " at 
first I was inclined to speculate in fried fish, and trust to 
their wrapping it up in sufficient paper to keep the 
grease at bay until I got out of sight ; but eventually I 
decided in favour of marine-stores." 

*' What did you buy ? " 

" A pair of compasses. One leg was stuck into the 
wood-work of the window frame, and this attracted my 
eye. Nothing could have been handsomer than the 
conduct of the proprietor. He pointed out that one leg 
was an inch shorter than the other ; he thought I had 
not ' noticed ' this. I explained that I could make all 
right again by shortening the other leg ; and he was so 
struck by my ingenuity and the general charm of my 
conversation that, after escorting me to the window of 
his first-floor-back, he was kind enough to take me 
down into the backyard to admire the water-butt." 

" There's no difficulty in getting round to the back 
here. There's a road between this side of the Square 
and some public building that looks upon The Meadows 
— a hospital I think — but I'd better make sure of my 
bearings." 

So saying, my friend ticked off with his finger the 
houses between the left-hand corner of the Square and 
Number 25. 

" It's the fifth house from that end," said he ; " and, 
what's better, it's the second from the low house on the 
right. That's the sort of landmark I like." 

This elaborate process proved effectual. He was 
able to identify the back of Number 25, but I cannot 
say whether it presented any feature of interest. I did 
12 



178 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

not accompany him on his survey ; and when he came 
back and I asked him if he had had good sport, he 
merely nodded, and added a note to one of his scraps 
of memoranda. 

Mr. Fairfield's Scott-worship did not content itself 
with merely identifying and mooning about Sir Walter's 
places of residence ; he was always on the look-out for 
traces of his hero's footsteps or the footsteps of his 
creations. These traces were not hard to find, and he 
followed them up with an enthusiasm that never 
slackened. The characters in the novels were, for the 
time being, as real to him as was Scott himself ; and 
he seemed as well pleased to follow Colonel Mannering 
and Dandie Dinmont in their progress to the tavern 
in Writers' Court where they caught Pleydell at high 
jinks, as he was to follow Sir Walter in his strolls home 
from the Parliament House or his favourite walk under 
the Salisbury Crags. When we were in the Canongate 
together, he could never resist the temptation to turn 
down St. John's Street to have one more look at James 
Ballantyne's house ; and as he stood before Number 10 in 
a brown study, I felt no doubt that in imagination he 
was taking part in one of those gorgeous dinners, which 
heralded the appearance of a new Waverley novel, and 
which Lockhart describes with such good-humoured con- 
tempt. In the Canongate Churchyard, not a stone's- 
throw from St. John's Street, lies good Scottish dust 
in plenty ; but, in Mr. Fairfield's eyes, the chief interest 
of the place was owing to the fact that John Ballantyne 
was buried there, and Sir Walter had stood at the open 
grave with Lockhart at his side, and had whispered, 
as he marked the sun gleam on the walls and towers of 
the Calton Hill, " I feel as if there would be less sun- 
shine for me from this day forth ". 

It was our custom in wet weather to seek refuge in 
the museums and picture galleries of Edinburgh. Our 
visit to the Museum of Science and Art in Chambers 
Street was something of a disappointment. The exhibits 



WIELDING THE VERNACULAR 179 

were no doubt admirable in themselves, and of great 
educational value ; but to us they were as dry as saw- 
dust. 

We mounted several flights of stairs and paused on 
several floors to take a bird's-eye view of the things to 
be seen ; but truth to tell, we had not been in the 
building for a quarter of an hour, when my friend stopped 
dead, and asked me with a gloomy countenance why I 
was so anxious that we should improve our minds. I 
disclaimed any such anxiety ; and the matter ended in 
our spending the rest of the morning in the cathedral. 

I am afraid to say upon what storey of the Municipal 
Buildings in the Eoyal Exchange the museum of civic 
curiosities and relics is situate. The stairs that lead up 
to it are as the sands of the sea in multitude ; but when 
once the ascent to that heaven-kissing room has been 
accomplished, no lover of the by-ways of history can say 
that he has journeyed in vain. The place is a veritable 
treasure-house, and before we had been in it for five 
minutes, we had the good fortune to make friends with 
the custodian. Thanks to his explanation, the contents 
of the museum and particularly its fine collection of 
drawings of the now demolished closes of the High 
Street and the Canongate, made the Edinburgh of by- 
gone days live before our eyes. 

When our guide told us that he was entitled to call 
himself a relic of the old city, we hailed the statement 
as a joke, for in vigour and activity he seemed a man 
in the early sixties ; but when we found that he had 
seen Sir Walter and had been a member of one of the 
old Edinburgh Trades, we admitted that his claim was 
well founded ; and, when we went our way, it was with 
a conviction that, of all the museum contained, there 
was nothing more interesting than the old gentleman 
who watched over it. 

We turned westward when we left the Municipal 
Buildings. Mr. Fairfield moved on lagging feet, and 
paused at every close-head to take what might be a 



180 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

last look down the entry. Our stay in Edinburgh was 
drawing near its end ; and for all we knew we might 
never see the High Street again. We passed Warriston's 
Close and the long slope of Eoxburgh's Close without 
more than a minute's halt ; but when we came to Advo- 
cates' Close, we turned down it. We had always felt a 
peculiar interest in that passage ; and just then this in- 
terest was livelier than usual, for it had been quickened 
by the drawings which we had seen in the museum. 
Some of these showed the Close as it stood in its palmy 
days, when a Lord Advocate did not disdain to live in 
it, and others showed it as it looked when in process of 
demolition. But though modern improvements have 
swept away the old legal hive, the entrance has been 
spared. The building fronting the High Street is of 
hoar antiquity, and the tunnel that runs under it must 
be the passage by which the old-time dwellers in the 
Close passed in and out. 

We made our way through this tunnel and down two 
of the many flights of steps that lead the passenger by 
easy stages from the level of the High Street to the 
level of the old Nor' Loch. On the platform at the 
foot of the second flight, Mr. Fairfield pulled up. It 
was not by any means our first visit, and he lounged 
against the iron handrail and lit a cigar, with the air of 
one who was quite at home. Opposite him stood two 
old doorways, each bearing a motto and initials, and 
the date 1590. On the right rose the turret stairway 
of the many-storied pile through which the tunnel ran. 
Northward, through the buildings, at the foot of the 
hill, one caught a glimpse of Princes Street ; and a little 
westward, the Scott Memorial showed itself above a 
house-top. 

" I've been thinking of those scraps of ' Tarn 
o' Shanter ' that our old friend recited," said my fellow- 
tourist. 

In a small room annexed to the museum there is a 
collection of Burns relics. In showing us these, the 



WIELDING THE VERNACULAR 181 

custodian had recited some lines of " Tarn o' Shanter," 
and a little later we had heard him recite a few more 
to a group of enthusiastic visitors. This was what my 
friend referred to. 

" What do you think of Burns? " he asked, 

" I don't read him." 

"Nobody does, for that matter; but most people 
know whether they like him or dislike him." 

" Do you like him ? " 

"I hate him." 

" Why ? " I asked this in some astonishment, for my 
friend had spoken with strange vehemence. 

Mr. Fairfield blew the ash off his cigar, and stared 
for some time at the two mottoes in front of him. 

"I believe it's because he was such a bad citizen," 
was his reluctant answer. 

" That's an odd reason for hating his poetry." 

" It's justifiable in the case of Burns. Some of his 
work speaks for itself ; and his worshippers have shouted 
so much about him from the housetops, that a good deal 
of the rest stinks in decent nostrils." 

" I mean the love songs," he went on; "the clean 
ones that you hear in drawing-rooms. They're pretty 
enough in themselves, but I hate them. When other 
men sing about loving and losing you can feel senti- 
mental; but not with Bums. You know too much 
about him and his love affairs. And, apart from that, 
he was a disreputable fellow. I am not fond of toss- 
pots." 

" Ah ! " said I, " I thought we should come to that. 
But haven't a few other poets been a little moist? " 

" Whether they have or not, doesn't touch my point. 
It's seeing such a bad citizen made a national hero that 
stirs me up. That's why I hate him." 

" But isn't that ridiculous? " 

Mr. Fairfield pondered. " It's like this," he said ; " I 
think poorly of him as a poet, and I loathe him as a 
man ; but I didn't care two straws about him till I came 



182 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

here. But when I can't look into a shop window with- 
out seeing his portrait or his bust stuck opposite to 
Scott's, as if the two were the great twin brethren of 
Scottish Hterature, I get mad. The thing's ridiculous." 

" But is his poetry poor? " 

" I think it is ! but just now I am not sure. I've 
read ' Tam o' Shanter '. I daresay I've read it more 
than once, and if you'd asked me yesterday what I 
thought of it I should have said it was poor stuff. But 
when our old friend recited those lines they seemed to 
me to have fire and vigour. The inflection was different, 
somehow. It seemed to put life into them ; they seemed 
racy. I was puzzling over the thing when we turned 
in here." 

" Why don't you ask some literary Scotsmen what 
they think?" 

" It's no good. Speaking to a Scot about Burns 
is like speaking to a church minister about dogma. If 
you're in the same line of business, or you've been to 
school and college with him, you may spell out what he 
really thinks; but if not, you'd better let him alone. 
When a man turns that side of his mind inwards, you 
can go on pecking at the other, if you like the sport ; 
but you'll only make your beak sore." 

" But after all, what does it matter to you whether 
the poetry's good or bad ? If you don't care for it you 
needn't read it." 

"I like to know what I think about things. It's 
hateful to have loose ends hanging around in your 
mind." 

" That shows you never had a legal education," said I. 

"A reasonable man ought to make up his mind. 
He ought to reach conclusions ; and he ought to get to 
them by three stages. He begins with an impression ; 
he goes on to an opinion, and he ends with a convic- 
tion." Mr. Fairfield was so much in earnest that, to 
emphasize his points, he tapped his left palm with two 
fingers. 



WIELDING THE VERNACULAR 183 

" The years of a man are only three-score and ten," 
said I. 

" Don't men, as a rule, make up their minds? " 

"Not one in a hundred has a mind, to begin with; 
and not one in a thousand travels over your three stages. 
I suppose every one starts with what you call an im- 
pression. It's a loose word, but it's convenient. I'll 
go so far as to admit that every one begins that way." 

"And what then?" 

" The next and last stage is a prejudice. That's a 
clumsy word, but it's the best you can get for an opinion 
that's formed without knowledge or reflection." 

Mr. Fairfield laughed. "I'll pass what you say 
through the three stages after we've had a cup of tea," 
he said as he rose from the handrail and stretched him- 
self. "I don't think it will take me long; but as re- 
gards the poetry, I'm beginning to feel a little doubt 
whether I didn't miss the second stage, after all ; and 
I'm with you to this extent — if that's left out, the last 
stage is worse than the first." 

" I suppose Burns must have passed down this entry 
at some time or other," I said, as we were making our 
way back to the High Street. 

" Impossible to say, without knowing what the old 
buildings were. If there was a howff among them — they 
call his public-houses ' howffs ' — the chances are that 
he came here pretty often." 

" We won't talk about him any more," I protested, 
laughing ; " but when I get home I mean to have a 
look at his poetry. I used to read it on the sly when I 
was a boy." 

" You won't get far," asserted my companion, with a 
decision that seemed to smack of the third stage. 

Our experiences in one of the Edinburgh museums 
were not marked by the official amenities which had 
made our inspection of the municipal collection so de- 
lightful. In the museum I am referring to — I need not 
give its name— Mr. Fairfield stood one wet morning, 



184 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

examining a case of coins and medals. The object of 
his particular attention was small, and the light was not 
good. He was wholly absorbed in his scrutiny, and his 
nose was within an inch or two of the glass covering, 
as he stood with his long body bent over the case and 
his hands resting on the frame. 

" Don't lean on the glass there ! " 

The tone was so peremptory, the voice was so tre- 
mendous, and the attendant responsible for the outrage 
was so near, that my poor friend fairly sprang into the 
air. 

" I was not leaning on the glass," he protested, as 
soon as he had recovered his composure. He spoke 
icily, but there was an angry colour in his cheeks. 

" I wasna' speaking to you.'' The official delivered 
this unexpected repartee in a bellow that made the 
place ring. For a moment his victim paused and glared 
at him in speechless indignation. He might as well 
have glared at the Castle rock ; for the man stood bolt 
upright, apparently unconscious of my friend's existence 
and looking neither to the right hand nor to the left. 

" I beg your pardon ; it sounded as if you were speak- 
ing to the whole British nation." Mr. Fairfield spoke 
with cold contempt ; and, strange to say, there was a 
nasal intonation in his voice. But the next instant his 
face broke into a smile, and he laid a friendly hand 
upon the other's arm. 

" Mon," he said admiringly, and from the full height 
of his superior stature, "it's a grrran' machine yon 
voice of yours. Ye munna bur-r-rust it." 

The attendant stepped back ; and a gurgle in his 
throat told us that he was endeavouring to make a re- 
tort. But the attempt failed ; for once in his life that 
official had met his match. He went back to his seat 
without a word ; and when I ventured to steal a look 
in his direction, his newspaper was lying upon his knees 
and he was staring straight in front of him, with eyes 
that seemed to ask questions which his lips refused to 



WIELDING THE VERNACULAK 185 

frame. It was not long before we drifted into the open 
air. 

" A man ought to behave himself when he's not in 
his own country," said Mr. Fairfield, " but when an 
official of any kind does something outrageous and then 
drapes himself in the immunity of his office and be- 
comes statuesque, it's hard to bear the rule in mind. 
I've never let myself go in this way before to-day ; 
though I've been in sore temptation many times, par- 
ticularly in Germany. I'm sorry I knocked a splinter 
off that dour slab of old red granite." 

I had no great belief in my friend's sorrow ; for his 
air as he recalled the scene inside was suggestive of 
triumph rather than remorse. When I dropped a hint 
to this effect, he laughed. 

"It came to me in a flash," he explained. "It re- 
minds me of the Golden Dustman. He said ' Mew 
says the cat. Quack-quack says the duck, Bow-wow- 
wow says the dog'. I think I went one better than 
that." 

" But where on earth did your vernacular come 
from? " 

" For most of that I was indebted to the native who 
repaired my bicycle. When I took it to him, he said 
the inner tube had burrust, and when I got it away he 
said it was a grrran' machine." 

Mr. Fairfield repeated this encomium with no little 
complacency ; he knew what I thought of the yellow 
bicycle. 

" And how did you receive that insult to your intelli- 
gence?" 

His eyes were half-shut as he considered the question. 

"iTe spoke as an expert; and he said it was a grand 
machine," he answered meekly. 



CHAPTEE XIV 

WE SEE THE MANUSCRIPT OF "WAVERLEY" 

" But there are three fireplaces." This was Mr. Fair- 
field's first remark when we visited the Parliament 
Hall ; and he made it in a tone of disappointment. 

" Why shouldn't there be? " I asked. 

He made no answer, but pushed open a door which 
led to the Advocates' Library, and made a courteous 
salutation to the official seated in the ante-room. 

" I wish to find out which was the fireplace that 
Lockhart mentions, the fireplace where Sir Walter 
used to talk with the young men — was it the middle 
one?" 

" It was." The of&cial seemed to feel no surprise at 
the question. 

" The mantelpieces, I observe, are modern; are the 
fireplaces old ? " 

" They were there in Sir Walter's time." 

" I know the Courts are not open now; but can you 
tell me if he sat in any of the Courts which are still in 
use?" 

" Oh, yes." Mr. Fairfield bowed and shut the door. 

"Lockhart says that the briefless barristers used to 
congregate before the fireplace here, and that Sir Walter, 
who loved young people, used to like to join in the 
* roar of fun ' on equal terms. It was here " — we were 
standing before the middle fireplace by this time — 
" Scott got the nickname of Peveril of the Peak ; I'll 
show you the story in Lockhart, when we get back. 
Peter Robertson — they called him Peter because it wasn't 

186 



MANUSCRIPT OF « WAVERLEY " 187 

his name ; it's a sort of pet name in Scotland — gave it 
to Scott, and it stuck : he had a forehead, you know, 
that rose Hke a chff. Scott gave Peter a Poland for 
his Oliver, as quick as lightning ; and that name stuck 
too. ' Peter of the Paunch ' was what Scott called 
him. I'm afraid Peter didn't get that paunch by prayer 
and fasting. He was very fond of his dinner — at all 
events when he grew old." 

" That's the Pleydell type of lawyer," exclaimed my 
friend a little later, when we were examining the por- 
traits and statues ; he was pointing to a portrait of Lord 
Dunsinnan as he spoke. " Not such a good specimen 
as that Eaeburn we saw in the National Gallery — Lord 
Newton, I mean; but it's the right type, sure enough." 

"What a face the other judge had!" he went on. 
" How Wendell Holmes would have revelled in that 
portrait ! I'd never heard the man's name before I saw 
it ; but I felt sure he was a personage of some sort — 
somebody with a flavour, not a mere ordinary, respectable 
judge. And I was right. He's mentioned in ' Bomantic 
Edinburgh,' and I've found something about him in 
Dean Eamsey. I'll run Lord Newton to earth as soon 
as I get back to London." 

" There's Lord Braxfield," I said. 

" Good heavens ! Is that ' old Braxy ' ? " 

My friend said no more, but for a long time he stood 
before the portrait as if fascinated. I could understand 
his wonder, for I had heard some of the stories that are 
told of Lord Braxfield ; and it was a surprise to me to 
find him depicted as a placid elderly gentleman, whose 
countenance was bland even to fatuousness, and who 
sat with his hands folded upon the gentle swell of a 
comfortably-filled waistcoat. 

"He's making up his mind upon a case; and he's 
taking ' a competent time,' " said Mr. Fairfield, laughing. 
" He's mastered the facts, and now he means to let 
them wamble about in his wame, with the toddy — with 
the toddy, mark you — for two or three days ; and then 



188 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

he'll give his ' ain interlocutor '. That was Lord Pol- 
kemmet's way ; I was reading about him in Dean 
Bamsey last night." 

" They were queer customers, those old Scottish law- 
lords," he went on. " I wonder if there's a portrait of 
Lord Gardenstone here. The Dean says that he had a 
pet pig ; and when it got too big to sleep in his lordship's 
bed, he used to make up a bed for it in his own room 
with his own clothes — not his judicial robes, you under- 
stand, but the clothes he put on in the morning. I 
guess Lord Mansfield, over there, was more careful of 
that scarlet suit he looks so proud of." 

" Do you know much about this Hall? " I asked, 
" No. I began to read it up, but I didn't get far. 
I gave up in despair ; I don't care to nibble at a thing ; 
it would take a week to get a bird's-eye view of the 
history of this place. I know the Scottish Parliament 
used to sit here, and that's about as far as my know- 
ledge goes of its historic past." 

" Montrose was sentenced here, wasn't he?" 
" Undoubtedly. I know that, because as a boy I 
had Aytoun's ' Lays ' by heart. I've had fragments of 
the ' Execution of Montrose ' running in my head ever 
since we saw that balcony at Moray House. There's 
something in it about Montrose rising in the middle of 
this room — I've got it ! — 

Ifc might not be. They placed him next 

Within the solemn hall 
Where once the Scottish kings were throned 

Amidst their nobles all. 
But there was dust of vulgar feet 

On that polluted floor. 
And perjured traitors filled the place 

Where good men sate before. 
With cruel joy came Warristoun 

To read the murderous doom, 
And then uprose the Great Montrose 

In the middle of the room. 

Those last two lines have something of Scott's own 
ring in them." 



MANUSCRIPT OF " WAVERLEY " 189 

In the basement of the Advocates' Library we saw 
the statue of Scott, which so justly bears the inscrip- 
tion Sic sedebat. We saw, too, the bound volume con- 
taining the original manuscript of "Waverley". It 
lay open at the beginning of the forty-first chapter — 
^^ How do you like him?" was Fergus's first question 
as they descended the large stone staircase. " A prince 
to live and die under," was Waverley's enthusiastic 
answer. It was strange to read those sentences, lying 
there just as they had issued, fresh-minted from Scott's 
brain, and to think in how many divers tongues, and 
by how many printing presses, they had since been 
issued to the world. 

" One has heard so much about the haste in which 
he wrote his novels," said Mr. Fairfield, as he scruti- 
nized the manuscript, " and about his never blotting 
anything, that one might suppose he literally scribbled 
them. That's nonsense ; no one ever wrote hastily in 
a hand like that. I daresay he left words out here and 
there, as every one else does, and didn't bother to read 
his manuscript over before he sent it off to James 
Ballantyne, to be copied for the printer ; but he didn't 
do his writing in a physical hurry, at all events. The 
mere manual part of authorship was an easy business 
with him ; but that was because he had the matter in 
his brain, all ready to be drawn off. He used to talk 
so lightly about his ' bits of novels,' as he called them, 
that people thought he just sat down and scribbled 
them as fast as he could put pen to paper. They 
didn't know that the story in hand was always sim- 
mering in his brain ; never worrying him, but never 
out of his thoughts for five minutes. He says in the 
' Journal ' that he composed hurriedly ; and he declares 
this gave his books any charm they possessed. ' I 
have been no sigher in shades,' says he, quite proudly, 
' no writer of 

Songs and sonnets and musical roundelays, 
Framed on fancies and whistled on reeds.' 



190 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

Charming lines, aren't they? — not his own, though. 
But he smartened them up a bit, I think — that was his 
way." 

" This manuscript is extraordinarily fair," I observed. 
*' It's almost impossible to believe it's the original." 

" I don't know ! When Dickens was young his 

* copy ' was nearly as clean — look at the manuscript of 

* Oliver Twist '. As he got older he took more pains 
with his sentences, and the manuscripts got to look like 
fishing nets. The matter he had to deal with had 
altered ; some kinds of writing must take more labour 
and elaboration than others. That reminds me, I must 
have a look at the manuscript of the little sermon Mr. 
Grewgious preached to Edwin Drood after the dinner 
in Staple Inn, when I get back to London. The whole 
scene is one of the subtlest bits in Dickens, and I want 
to see it just as he wrote it down. Now, Scott never 
handled that sort of thing ; and he wasn't far off the 
root of the matter when he wrote in his journal a 
quotation from ' The Good-natured Man,' to the effect 
that one man expressed himself in one way and one 
in another, and that was all the difference between 
them." 

There are some royal relics in the dark underground 
room which contains the Scott statue and manuscript. 
The most interesting of these is a little letter, which, 
as a child, Charles I wrote to his father. 

" You're not trying to re-people the place, are you? " 
I asked, when we had returned to the Parliament Hall, 
and my friend had fallen into one of his brown studies, 
as he stood with his back to the middle fireplace. 

" Oh, no, that's too big a job. I was only thinking 
that Scott must have often been here as a youth, 
dancing attendance on his father, just as Alan Fairford 
danced attendance on his. And that brought Daddy 
Fairford and Peter Peebles before my eyes — I daresay 
you remember how minutely he describes their appear- 
ance — and I thought how often Scott must have seen 



MANUSCRIPT OF " WAVERLEY " 191 

those two figures in his mind's eye in this very room. 
And it's queer to picture Bozzy at this fireplace, with 
one of old Scott's briefs in his hand, and the old man 
in reverential attendance ; Bozzy was a judge's son, you 
know." 

" Dickens was here in 1841," my friend went on. 
" It was here he was introduced to Christopher North. 
I guess this place is pretty crowded when the Courts 
are sitting ; but Dickens wrote to Forster that Wilson 
was slashing up and down, now with one and now with 
another, and with a shaggy devil of a terrier at his heels 
all the time. And Dickens was introduced to the very 
Peter Eobertson who had called Scott ' Old Peveril ' 
at this fireplace, eighteen years before. Dickens had 
just got to the top of the tree when he came to Edin- 
burgh. He'd written ' Pickwick,' and ' Oliver Twist,' 
and ' Nickleby,' and the ' Old Curiosity Shop ' ; and he 
wasn't far off the end of ' Barnaby Eudge'. It was 
Jeffrey who made him come to Scotland. He put up 
at the Royal Hotel and they nearly lionized him to death. 
It was his first experience in that way on a large scale ; 
but he had plenty of it when he went to America next 
year." 

" You did him right well," I remarked admiringly. 
" I've read about it in the ' American Notes ' — and in 
'Martin Chuzzlewit '." 

Mr. Fairfield closed his left eye. " I guess we'll 
smoke a pipe outside," said he; " there's a statue there 
that oughtn't to be hurried over." 

We did not forget to trace the progress of Claverhouse 
from the Parliament Hall to the West Port, so far as 
the disappearance of the old West Bow would allow us. 
In the Grassmarket we were looking at the site of the 
city scaffold, when one of the miserable waifs who are 
always hanging about the place accosted us. 

" It's where the great Montroose was hanged," said he. 

" I think it was at the City Cross," whispered Mr. 
Fairfield to me. 



192 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

The man overheard this, and when he spoke again 
there was a dogmatic tone in his voice that would have 
done credit to a meenister. 

" He was hanged here ; and the joodges watched him 
from the top of that hoose ; they sat there at all the 
executions." 

The house he pointed to stood on the north side of 
the Grassmarket, near where the scaffold used to be, 
and had a flat roof. Mr. Fairfield withdrew from the 
conflict ; there followed a small transaction in silver 
behind my back. 

We went to the Castle several times. On our first 
visit we saw the chamber over the gateway, where the 
ninth Earl of Argyle passed his last night, the regalia 
room, the Royal Lodging and the banqueting hall ; and 
from the King's Bastion we gazed for awhile on what 
is, perhaps, the grandest prospect that even Edinburgh 
can offer. Mons Meg awoke my companion's enthusi- 
asm, because it was Sir Walter who brought her back to 
Scotland ; but when we entered St. Margaret's Chapel, 
and he caught sight of the photographs and other 
rubbishry that are offered for sale therein, he waxed 
venomous. 

" ' The hand of the diligent maketh rich,' " said he. 
" I guess that's a favourite text here and in Shake- 
speare's Church." 

St. Margaret's Chapel is, the guide-books say, the 
oldest ecclesiastical building in Scotland that bears a 
roof. Queens have been its nursing mothers ; it was 
built by Margaret, wife of Shakespeare's Malcolm, and 
our own Victoria had a hand in its restoration. It is 
odd that with such a record, and standing in a royal 
fortress, it should be so degraded. 

On the occasion of our last visit to the Castle, we 
followed in the wake of a good Scot who was acting as 
escort to two English ladies well stricken in years. He 
was a spare man, inclining to threescore, with the 
moist eye and bright complexion that my friend had 



MANUSCRIPT OF " WAVERLEY " 193 

so admired in the portrait of Lord Newton, The ladies 
were painfully anxious to manifest a proper appreciation 
of all that he showed them ; but they were evidently 
tired-out, and their knowledge of Scottish history was of 
the slightest. He was brimming over with enthusiasm, 
and his information was so copious and so admirably 
conveyed, that the temptation to listen when we were 
close to him was irresistible. I think he saw we were 
interested in what he said, and thought none the worse 
of us on that account. 

In the little panelled room in which James I was born, 
and in the ante-chamber adjoining, we had the benefit 
of the stranger's exposition ; and in the regalia room 
we found ourselves again in his immediate neighbour- 
hood. Here his enthusiasm was particularly fervid. 

" And what do you say it all is?" asked one of the 
ladies, when, after drawing attention to almost every 
article behind the glass screen, he had paused to take 
breath. 

"It's the regalia — the Crown jewels," he answered, 
with unruffled politeness. 

" I thought they were in the Tower." 

" This is the old Scottish regalia. Our kings and 
queens wore it at their coronations before the Union." 

" Oh, how interesting ! Then who does it belong to 
now?" 

" The Government." He had hesitated a little before 
his answer as if searching for a word that his questioner 
would understand. His choice did not prove happy. 

"Oh! the English Government." The lady spoke 
with lively satisfaction, and the air of one who had at 
last cleared up a misunderstanding. 

He was a charmingly courteous and long-suffering 
cicerone ; but this was more than he could endure. 

" I beg your pardon — the British Government." 

He spoke quite stiffly, and as he spoke he looked to- 
wards us. My friend's face was unmoved, but " some- 
thing eminently human beaconed from his eye ". The 
13 



194 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

other read it aright, and his momentary irritation 
melted into an amused and tolerant smile. When the 
Scottish gentleman spoke again, he took us, as it were, 
under his wing, and addressed his remarks as much to 
us as to the two ladies. 

In the regalia room stands the oak chest in which, 
for more than a hundred years after the Union, the 
Honours of Scotland lay hidden. Inspired by this, our 
cicerone recounted the circumstances under which the 
chest had been opened in 1818 ; not forgetting to men- 
tion Scott's horror, when on the day following, one of 
the Search Commissioners sportively proposed to put 
the ancient Scottish crown upon a young lady's head. 

" I daresay you know the story," he added, courteously 
anxious not to appear to be posing as an instructor, and 
at the same time giving us a little bow. 

Mr. Fairfield bowed in return. " And I'm sure yovj 
know how prettily it ends," said he. 

" Eh ? " The story-teller was evidently puzzled. 

" It was Mrs. Lockhart who told the incident to her 
husband. She said that the sympathy which she 
showed moved Sir Walter very much, and he began to 
treat her as a woman from that day." 

" True, true ! " There was genuine delight and 
astonishment in the other's tone. " I didn't know you 
took such an interest in Sir Walter down south," he 
exclaimed. 

" My friend comes from England ; I am an American 
citizen." 

The Scottish gentleman was taken off his feet. The 
clear-cut sentences to which we had been listening with 
no little admiration gave place to an utterance that was 
quite emotional. 

" That makes it even more delightful. Eeally, really ! 
— but there's the common tongue after all. Well, 
well ! We're all subjects of King Shakespeare." 

He said this last with a bow towards me ; and then 



MANUSCRIPT OF ' WAVERLEY " 195 

with his moist eyes sparMing and a flush on his bright 
face, he shook hands with my companion. 

" When he spoke of our common tongue, I wondered 
what he would think of your vernacular," I remarked, 
as soon as our friend had gone. 

"Law or medicine, say you?" was Mr. Fairfield's 
only answer. 

It was his custom to speculate upon the probable 
calling of any stranger with whom we chanced to make 
acquaintance. 

"Law," said I, without hesitation; "he's such a 
good-looking chap." 



CHAPTEE XV 

MR. FAIRFIELD MORALIZES IN GREYFRIARS 
CHURCHYARD 

No conscientious sojourner in Edinburgh misses the 
Greyfriars churchyard. If the tourist be very enthusi- 
astic and exceptionally well-tochered, he will act wisely 
in buying a guide-book of the gate-keeper. This, we 
were assured, was an official work, and the Kirk 
Session had fixed the price at two shillings. Even 
under these circumstances, it is not, I hope, absolutely 
heretical to suggest that the charge is somewhat high. 

Mr. Fairfield insisted on hunting out the grave of 
Henry Mackenzie, because he was a friend of Sir 
Walter's. 

" Dear, dear ! " he said, when we stood before it ; 
" he lived to be over eighty-five, and he shot and fished 
after a fashion down to eighty at least ; and Scott was 
disabled at sixty, and Dickens was struck down at 
fifty-eight, and Shakespeare died at fifty-two." 

" But do you think longevity is a thing to be desired 
by an author — as regards his reputation after he has 
gone, I mean ? " 

" Not extreme longevity, certainly ; it isn't in the 
nature of things that it should. I can't think of any 
author who added to his reputation after sixty-five — 
except perhaps Tennyson. I'm thinking of * Lucknow ' 
and 'The Eevenge'." 

" Not ' Crossing the Bar ' ? " I asked. 

"Ah! — and he was eighty when he wrote that. 
But I doubt if it added to his reputation in the way I 

196 







? ?> 



GREYFRIARS CHURCHYARD 197 

mean ; lie didn't break new ground in it. Now, those 
two ballads are incomparably finer than anything else 
he did in the same line. He wrote both of them long 
after sixty, unless I'm mistaken. Some of his earlier 
ballads are almost poor." 

The site of the family grave of Sir Walter's father is 
in Greyfriars churchyard, close to the entrance which 
gives upon the grounds of the Heriot Hospital, 

" Sir Walter has been here," said I. 

" Oh, yes; several times. I don't know how often ; 
and there are many other graves here, which he must 
have stood at. His father was in great request for 
funerals, and he liked to take his son with him. The 
boy was not so fond of the business as the old man was, 
and he escaped it when he could. I suppose most of 
the funerals that Scott pere attended were in this 
churchyard, or in the Canongate, and no doubt a good 
many of Sir Walter's own friends are buried here. 
Oh, yes, he must have known every inch of the place. 
It's a pity the old church where the family used to 
worship has gone. Don't let us forget to hunt up 
Bluidy Mackenzie's mausoleum before we go; Scott 
knew where that was when he was a boy." 

We had felt so confident, when we entered the grave- 
yard, that we could find all we wanted without the as- 
sistance of the Kirk Session's magnuTn opus that we 
had indulged the gate-keeper with a little gentle satire 
on the subject of that volume ; but I am bound to con- 
fess that, later on, we boggled for a long time over the 
site of the flat gravestone on which the people signed 
the National Covenant in 1638. We had read in one 
of our guide-books that this stone belonged to the tomb 
of a Boswell of Auchinleck, and was still extant ; but 
in or about the right place, we could find nothing but 
the grave of certain Victorian Boswells ; and here the 
stone, though flat, was surrounded by a railing which 
would have driven an impatient signatory frantic. 

We were forlornly leaning against this barrier, wish- 



198 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

ing that we had not been so cutting about the official 
guide, and debating as to whether we should eat the leek 
in respect of it, when a stranger took pity on us, and ex- 
plained that the tombstone upon which we were gazing 
was the one we wanted ; the fact being that in com- 
paratively recent times it had been turned over, and 
the upside inscribed to the honour and glory of the 
Boswells, whose names we had been studying. 

" Unless my memory fails me," said Mr. Fairfield, 
" the Covenant made many turn their coats; but I can 
hardly believe it made the Boswells turn their tomb- 
stone. Yet the thing must have been done on purpose, 
if at all. No Scot could deny that the stone on which 
the people signed the Covenant with their blood in 
1638, had at least an historical interest. What can it 
all mean?" 

" Perhaps it isn't true," I suggested, as soon as the 
stranger had departed ; " I'm sure James Boswell would 
have scorned such an act, little though he may have 
sympathized with the Covenanters." 

" I don't believe a word of it ! " was my friend's 
verdict. 

We had no difficulty in finding the Martyrs' Monu- 
ment. The inscription on it tells the world that, in 
one way or another, some eighteen thousand of the 
excellent of the earth were murdered and destroyed for 
adhering to the Covenants and the laws. 

" Are those figures authentic ? " I asked. 

" Probably not. Let's hope not ! Let's hope, at 
all events, that this good blood — I mean the good 
blood on both sides — wasn't shed in vain ; that it 
helped the world on somehow." 

" Troublous times ! " said I later on, when we were 
standing near that part of the churchyard where, after 
Bothwell Brig, so many Covenanters were penned in 
under the open sky for five cruel months. 

"Horrible! Horrible!" 

" But it's no good grieving over them," my friend 



GREYFRIARS CHURCHYAKD 199 

went on after a long pause. " They're old unhappy 
far-off things — they're nothing more now. As I read 
history, there's no moral to be drawn from the doings 
of either side — except this, perhaps : every decent man 
nowadays ought to make up his mind he'll never directly 
or indirectly put a strain on the conscience of a fellow- 
creature." 

" Not a bad moral that," said I ; " not a little one 
either." 

" No ; and perhaps the mere fact that folks like you 
and me can think as we do about it, shows that the 
excellent of the earth who died for king or kirk in the 
killing- time have helped the world on a little, after all." 

On our first Sunday in Edinburgh a drenching rain 
had prevented our attending a place of worship. On 
our second Sunday I proposed St. Giles's, but this was 
met by an objection on the part of my travelling com- 
panion. He had heard, somewhere, that in the Pres- 
byterian cathedral the psalms were sung and the Lord's 
Prayer chanted ; and he protested that he could not 
permit any one to say the Mass at his lug. He con- 
fessed, afterwards, that what he really objected to was 
the singing of an anthem : not, as he was careful to 
explain, because he feared to lose his voice, but merely 
because that form of devotional exercise wearied him 
beyond endurance. In the end, we decided in favour 
of the Old Greyfriars ; but on our presenting ourselves 
at the doors we found that during September the even- 
ing service was not held. In the face of this rebuff, 
Mr. Fairfield withdrew his objection to the cathedral. 

That was our last night in Edinburgh. Our pro- 
posed stay of two or three days had already extended 
over a fortnight ; and though we would fain have pro- 
longed it still further, this could not be. Business de- 
manded my return to London at the end of another 
week, and to abandon Tweedside altogether was out of 
the question. 



200 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

" ' To-morrow to fresh woods and pastures new,' " 
said Mr. Fairfield, on our return from St. Giles's, as he 
settled himself in the big chair, with a cheerfulness 
that spoke of virtuous satisfaction. We had obtained 
good seats close to the chapel of St. Eloi, which con- 
tains the Argyle tomb and monument, and the service 
had been a short one. 

" I never thought, when we came here, I should be 
so reluctant to leave," he went on. " But then I had 
no notion of what Edinburgh was like; I don't believe 
anyone could have a notion without coming here." 

"A wonderful place," I acquiesced. 

" The most wonderful thing in it — or at all events the 
most startling and unexpected thing is that Water of 
Leith. It's fine enough when you see it from the top 
of the Dean Bridge ; but when you go down to it, and 
find a clear stream running by a rock cliff and foaming 
over a rocky bottom, and you remember that you're in 
the heart of a great metropolis, it fairly takes your breath 
away. Nothing took hold of me like that river ; not the 
Calton, nor the Castle, nor Arthur's Seat." 

" Not even the Old Town ? " 

" That doesn't appeal to the same side of a man. 
To many men it wouldn't appeal at all, though it hit 
me hard enough. I shall go down to my grave with a 
feeling that the Fates ought to have given me, when I 
was young, a year or two in an attic in one of those old 
houses in the High Street that used to look across the 
Nor' Loch when they were young. Just think of the 
look-out there is from them, even now." 

" You may think yourself lucky to have seen so many 
of the old houses ; they won't be here for ever." 

"I agree; and, between ourselves, I wouldn't stop 
the improvements if I could." 

" Yes, I mean it," he protested, when he saw my as- 
tonishment. " I think the authorities are doing a good 
work ; and I go with them. Of course, one would like 
to see more of the sort of thing that is going on in 



GREYFRIARS CHURCHYARD 201 

Riddle's Close ; but to expect restoration in that spirit 
on a large scale would be Utopian. The truth is," he 
went on, "I don't like the look of some of the children 
here. They come out of insanitary lairs ; I'm sure of 
it — filthy lairs, too. A man must be stark, raving mad 
if he thinks that a Httle thing. No, no, I go with 
Dickens in these matters, and I'm not crank enough to 
let my sentimentalities lead me into what I think down- 
right bad citizenship. I'm glad I've seen these old 
houses, with their tablets and pious mottoes ; but " 

A wave of his cigar in the air was the only finish to 
this sentence ; and for a time we both sat meditating. 

"When I get back to London," said my friend, as 
he roused himself and began to collect his books in 
readiness for our journey to Melrose, " I shall read 
through all the novels again — all the Scottish ones, I 
mean. Heaps of things in them will come to me quite 
fresh, now I've seen Edinburgh. I've re-read ' Red- 
gauntlet ' and ' Guy Mannering ' since we came here. 

I shall tackle ' Old Mortality ' next And that reminds 

me of something that happened when we were in the 
cathedral just now," he broke off. " Have you ever 
been inclined to take a side in the King versus Kirk 
business, since we came here? " 

He asked this with so much earnestness that my 
curiosity was aroused. 

" Have you? " I asked. 

"Yes. I didn't know it till this evening ; but when 
I found myself sitting just opposite that chapel, and I 
was looking at the figure on the tomb, I was conscious 
of a sort of regret that it wasn't Montrose. This set 
me wondering, and I came to the conclusion that I was 
a king's man. Did you ever hear of anything more 
ridiculous? " 

I laughed, but in my own mind I admitted that I, 
too, was on that side ; though why I could not tell. 

" Perhaps it was only because you liked Montrose 
better than Argyle," I suggested, to draw him out. 



202 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

" No ! that wasn't all of it ; though, of course, I like 
Montrose best. Leaving out the question of character, 
he was picturesque, and Argyle wasn't. Montrose was 
a poet for one thing, and then there's that story about 
him and his hair." 

"I don't know it." 

" It was on the morning of his execution. Warristoun 
went to his cell : to make himself unpleasant, I suppose. 
Montrose was combing out his curls. — ' Wliy is James 
Graham so careful of his locks ? ' And Montrose smiled, 
and made answer, that so long as his head was his own, 
he meant to see to it : when Warristoun got it, he might 
deal with it as he liked. That's the substance of the 
story." 

" And a very good story, too. It reminds me of what 
Sir Thomas More said at the scaffold, when he asked 
the Lieutenant of the Tower to see him safe up the steps 
— he promised to shift for himself coming down." 

" More's another of the picturesque figures of history," 
said Mr. Fairfield. " And he was a poet, among other 
things. But to go back to King and Kirk, has it ever 
struck you that in religious struggles, both sides always 
come out on top ? The loser gets as much happiness 
as the winner, I mean." 

" Even if he loses his head? " 

" That's where the happiness comes in. He feels 
sure he's going to heaven as a martyr, and that makes 
him and his side happy. The other side feel sure he's 
going to hell as a malignant. That makes them even 
happier. People feel like that towards the enemy, when 
they quarrel about religion. There's never a pin to 
choose between them, as regards ferocity." 

" Then why take a side in King versus Kirk ? " 

" Why, indeed ? I don't care a puff of tobacco smoke 
about their quarrels ; they don't appeal to me at all. I 
can't put myself in sympathy with either party ; I simply 
can't bring my mind into line with theirs. And yet here 
I am, with a prejudice in favour of the king's side." 



GREYFRIARS CHURCHYARD 203 

As he said this he was standing before the fireplace 
with his hands in his pockets. He looked towards me 
as if inviting an explanation of the phenomenon. 

"It's the novels that have done it," said I. 

" To some extent ; but they don't explain it alto- 
gether. I'll tell you why it is — it's because the king's 
side was more picturesque." 

" Have you carried the problem right through the 
three stages ? " 

" I have indeed ; and I've come to the conclusion 
that I'm no better than the young plants of grace in 
' Bonnie Dundee '. It's the jack-boots and the plumed 
hats that have captivated me. They're so bonnie that 
when I see them I wish them success." 

" Perhaps though, I can hardly go so far as to assert 
that I look couthie and slee while I am doing it," he 
added with much gravity ; but as he spoke he glanced 
at his face in the looking-glass, and we both laughed. 



CHAPTEE XVI 

WE CROSS MELROSE BRIDGE AND CLIMB EILDON 

*" It is perhaps rather heavy," said Mr, Fairfield, on 
the morning of our departure for Melrose, as we stood 
outside the Waverley station and watched three porters 
stagger under the weight of his trunk ; ' ' but it's so 
convenient to have some of your things about you. 
These men will see to our baggage ; we shall have enough 
to do in seeing to the bicycles." 

The porters acknowledged my friend's gratuity with 
the usual touch of the cap, and then intimated that we 
must follow our belongings to the weighing-machine. 

" I think they always weigh luggage here, when it's 
to be taken to certain parts of the system," I explained ; 
" I heard some one talking about it at the hotel." I 
said this without betraying the joy with which my 
heart sang. 

" A very stupid rule," asserted Mr. Fairfield ; "it 
must take up so much time." 

My portmanteau passed the test of the machine 
without question ; but when I saw the big trunk put 
on, and noticed the satisfaction that beamed on the 
face of the presiding officer, I thought it well to dis- 
appear with my bicycle round a corner. 

In Mr. Fairfield's case the weighing process certainly 
did take a long while. Fortunately there was so much 
time to spare, that I could wait for him without im- 
patience. When he came in view, he appeared to be 
suffering under an intolerable sense of wrong. 

" This is nothing less than extortion," he protested. 
204 



WE CLIMB EILDON 205 

" It's what they call a love of thrift, I suppose — ' Ou 
ay, the Scots are close'." 

" I'm afraid Scotland's in a bad way," I answered 
gloomily. 

" Why do you say that ? " There was suspicion and 
no little sharpness in his tone. 

" I thought it might comfort you." 

Mr. Fairfield made no answer, as he stood with one 
hand on his bicycle, and his eyes fixed on a small yellow 
document which he held in the other. 

" You were talking about extortion," said I. 

" It's very near it, at all events." He was now get- 
ting past the irritable stage and verging towards the 
apologetic. 

" Extortion is dishonesty," said I severely. " That's 
one thing against them. And we found out yesterday 
that their Church was in a bad way. That's another." 

" I only said it seemed lukewarm." 

" But you wouldn't say a thing like that without 
good cause." 

" I was disappointed when the man gave out a Cal- 
vinistic text, and then didn't preach a word of Calvin- 
ism." Mr. Fairfield is a very truthful man, even when 
angry; and just then he was rapidly recovering his 
temper. 

" It was disappointing," I admitted; "even I felt a 
little injured at the time. But that doesn't exhaust the 
catalogue of their offences." 

"What else is there?" 

" The national fondness for rotten fruit is simply 
deplorable." 

Mr, Fairfield laughed. " I wasn't going back to the 
shop to make a fuss about a few cents," said he. "I 
was chaffing you, that time. Do you think I didn't 
notice your superior grin ? " 

A few days before, he had bought a pound of apples 
at a grand establishment in Princes Street. These, 
upon the opening of the bag later on, turned out to be 



206 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

much decayed ; and in the first flush of his resentment, 
my friend had declared that a people who could allow 
such a fraudulent establishment to flourish in their 
midst, must be ignorant of the difference between good 
fruit and bad. He had put aside my suggestion that he 
should go back to the shop and complain ; and had, 
indeed, asserted in answer to it, that he did not blame 
the greengrocer, as no doubt the man had learned by 
experience that his customers preferred their apples 
rotten, A further and more detailed scrutiny of his 
purchase had ended in the bag and it contents being 
hurled down a close-head, with a muttered quotation 
from the Bard — " there's small choice in rotten 
apples ". 

" It's odd how ready one is to find fault with things 
in a strange place," I said consolingly. "I hope you 
didn't actually come to blows over that weighing- 
machine." 

He was quite himself by this time. " Oh, no ! I 
merely challenged the company's right to charge the 
excess ; and the man produced a document, showing 
what weight of baggage was within the regulations." 

" And after that you had the audacity to come to me 
and talk about extortion — but what on earth took up all 
the time?" 

" They had to send for some more weights." My 
friend was merry now. " I wish you'd hold the bicycle," 
he said a minute later; "I was perhaps a little short 
with that of&cial ; I may as well put matters right." 

" Need you bother? " 

" A man ought to behave himself out of his own 
country," said the good patriot, as he moved off in the 
direction of the machine. 

" You've done the handsome thing," I said when he 
came back. " It really was very irritating. I suppose 
the amount was nothing considerable." 

" Only a few shillings. It wasn't the amount, it 
was the wickedness of the thing that roused me." 



WE CLIMB EILDON 207 

" I almost wonder you didn't make a really effective 
protest." 

"How could I?" 

" You might have refused to let the company carry 
the trunk at all. You would only have been acting 
strictly within your rights in so doing." 

" That would have been magnificent ! " he exclaimed. 
" They would have lost the amount of their unrighteous 
demand, and I should have lost nothing but my clothes 
and books. Eeally, one ought never to stir a finger 
without legal advice." 

Melrose was our destination, and our train was an 
express, that ran to Galashiels without a stop. Here, 
however, there was a longish wait; and my friend, 
who had learned from a native in the carriage that we 
had been running through the vale of the Gala, suddenly 
proposed that we should take to the bicycles for the 
four or five miles that remained of our journey. As 
the morning was fine, I was only too glad to fall in 
with this suggestion. We had no difficulty in finding 
the road to Melrose; and we had not been riding 
many minutes when we saw water below us on the 
right. We both stopped, almost involuntarily, and at 
the same moment ; for we knew it was the Tweed. 

With most of us, the sight of some great, alien river, 
familiar as a name and nothing more, makes the heart 
beat faster ; but what are the Abanas and Pharpars of 
the wide world as compared with a man's own Jordan ? 
In such of us as love Sir Walter, the first glimpse of 
his river wakes an emotion not easily expressed in 
words ; for, be our domicile of origin what it may, we 
are all Scots of the Border, as regards the Tweed. 

Not far beyond the point where we stopped, a 
tributary of the river runs under the highway. We 
made another halt here, to lean upon the bridge and 
look down into the water. The prospect of the Tweed, 
as seen through the trees a little in front of us, was 
so beautiful that we forsook the bicycles ; and taking 



208 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

advantage of a neighbouring gate, we made our way to 
the margin. We stood for some time gazing on the 
clear, swift stream and listening to its ripple. Not a 
spear's length distant, where the current eddied round 
a bank of white pebbles, a white-breasted bird preened 
its feathers and looked at us askance. 

"Do you hear the river?" asked my companion, 
almost in a whisper, " It was the sound of all others 
most delicious to his ears. It was murmuring just as 
we hear it, when he was dying — seventy-one years ago, 
almost to a day." 

On our way back to the road, we stayed for a moment 
to peep under the bridge, and wonder what the stream- 
let was and where it came from. We learned a day or 
two later, that it was the Elwand, the burn that runs 
through the Fairy Dean, the haunted glen of the 
" Monastery ". 

When we came to the bridge over the Tweed, Mr. 
Fairfield showed signs of great inward commotion. 
" If only I had one of the guide-books or even a map ! " 
was the burden of his song. 

" Is this Melrose bridge?" he shouted to a man in a 
cart, whom we met before we had reached the other 
side. 

The answer was yes ; and almost before it had been 
uttered, my friend was off his bicycle and fumbling in 
his pocket-book. 

"I've only a very brief note, a mere outline; but I 
think it will do for present purposes. I've been wonder- 
ing ever since we left Galashiels whether we were fol- 
lowing the road by which they brought Scott home for 
the last time. And directly I saw this bridge, I felt 
pretty sure that we had, and that this was Melrose 
bridge." 

His hands were trembling with excitement as he 
fished out a scrap of paper, and read from it aloud : — 

" ' Reached Newhaven by steamboat late on 9th July 
1832 — put up at Douglas's Hotel, St. Andrew's Square 



WE CLIMB EILDON 209 

— on 11th started for Abhotsford — river being in flood 
had to go round by Melrose bridge.' That means they 
couldn't go by the ford, so they had to take this bridge. 
We've been riding along the very road by which 
they came," he went on with a catch in his voice. 
" And the way to Abhotsford must be somewhere out 
yonder." 

Without another word he was in the saddle, and the 
yellow bicycle was speeding onward. I lost sight of 
him in a moment, for the road curved to the left on 
the other side of the bridge. I mounted and followed 
at a more moderate pace. A little way beyond the 
curve, I passed on my right a cottage with a bright 
garden in front of it ; and a few paces in advance I saw 
my friend standing in the road, staring hard at a finger- 
post. The cottage and its garden were on his right, 
and I noticed that they formed the point at which the 
road forked ; one of the forks being the way I had just 
traversed. I got off and joined him ; he said nothing, 
but his face was eloquent of great tidings. The ex- 
planation was not far to seek ; for the direction written 
on that part of the finger-post, which pointed to the 
other fork, ran as follows : " Two miles to Abhotsford, 
and six miles to Selkirk ". 

" Are you going to Abhotsford ? " I asked. 

" Oh, no ! Not now ; we shall have plenty of time 
for that. And besides, I want my notes." 

We rode on, past the old peel tower of Darnick, and 
into Melrose. 

It is common knowledge that 

the triple pride 
Of Eildon looks upon Strathclyde — 

and that at the foot of Eildon lies Melrose. To the 
best of my recollection, only two out of the three peaks 
are visible from the town itself. 

It did not take long to pick up our luggage at the 
station and make the necessary arrangements at our 
14 



210 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

hotel. Mr. Fairfield's next proceeding was to place 
himself in the hands of the local hairdresser. 

" You can often get a lot of information while you're 
being shaved ; I make it a rule never to shave myself 
in a new place," said he. 

" There's a suspension bridge across the river here," 
he announced when I next saw him ; " and just above 
that is a dam called the cauld. It is I suppose the 
curb that was made by Thomas the Rhymer's demon. 
He was an energetic spirit and worried Thomas to give 
him work. One task Thomas set him was the dam- 
ming of the Tweed." 

" I think that was at Kelso," I remarked meekly. 
I had recently been looking through the " Lay of the 
Last Minstrel ". 

" I believe you're right," said my friend, a little sur- 
prised at my superior knowledge. " The barber's 
young man says there's good bathing in the river," he 
went on. 

" At this time of the year? " I asked the question in 
some astonishment ; for the weather had for weeks 
past been frigid and ungenial. 

"He said he didn't bathe himself; but he had no 
doubt it was all right." 

" Are you going to try it ? " 

" It would be pleasant to feel that one had bathed in 
Scott's river," he answered hesitatingly. "I' think I 
shall see what it looks like to-morrow morning. The 
sun to-day is quite hot. Will you join me? I sup- 
pose it must be before breakfast." 

I pointed out to Mr. Fairfield that for me to run 
such a risk of pneumonia would be unfair to my clients ; 
but I promised to try to rise early enough to witness 
his ablutions. 

By taking the road that goes under the railway 
bridge and diving down a passage that runs between 
two houses, the traveller within a few minutes of leav- 
ing the market-place of Melrose, finds himself in the 



WE CLIMB EILDON 211 

open country with the peaks of the Eildon Hills 
straight in front of him. This was the route we fol- 
lowed after lunch that day. By the time we stood on 
the top of the middle peak — the highest of the three — 
we had wet jackets, but the shower was over and the 
sun was shining brilliantly on a wide prospect of Border 
hills, range upon range beneath a broken sky. The 
rain had been heavy while it lasted, and it had brought 
a bitter wind with it. Mr. Fairfield had found com- 
fort in the recollection that Washington Irving had 
been caught in a similar shower when Scott showed 
him over the country in 1817. 

" Irving says that Scott thought nothing of the wet," 
gasped the literary enthusiast, as he struggled forward 
with bent head and chattering teeth; "but Irving 
didn't like it at all, and for his sake Scott took shelter 
under a thicket." 

" He would have been puzzled to find one here," I 
suggested. 

"I've read somewhere," said my friend, as we stood 
on the summit in the bright sunshine, " that from here 
Scott could point out more than forty spots famous in 
Border history. I wish I knew some of them, By- 
the-by, Washington Irving speaks of this country as 
being absolutely treeless. That's not the case now." 

" You may depend upon it," he went on, with grow- 
ing interest, " the trees have been planted within the 
last hundred years, and the country-side owes a good 
many of them to Sir Walter. He was an enthusiastic 
planter himself, and he influenced his neighbours in the 
same direction. I remember reading in a book of Lord 
Cockburn's that till the Laird of Torwoodlee began 
planting on his land — Torwoodlee's somewhere on the 
Gala, quite near Abbotsford — there wasn't a tree to be 
seen near the house. That Laird was Scott's contem- 
porary, but I don't know whether Scott had a hand in 
his planting." 

On our way down the hill, we came upon a bed 



212 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

of heather. It was past its prime, but we hailed it 
with enthusiasm. On our walk to Eoslin we had seen, 
in the distance, the sun shining on heathery slopes of 
the Pentlands ; but this Eildon heather was the first 
we had handled in Scotland. 

" The Macphail in Mr. Pinero's ' Cabinet Minister' 
says that heather is poor walking ; I'm inclined to agree 
with him." 

We were negotiating a particularly steep part of the 
descent when Mr. Fairfield made this remark ; and as 
he spoke he slipped upon a concealed boulder. He went 
down with some force, and there was a look of agony 
upon his visage as he rose to his feet, but his literary 
ardour was unquenchable. 

" Scott'told Washington Irving that if he didn't see the 
heather at least once a year, he thought he should die," 
remarked the sufferer, as he rubbed the point of impact. 

" We'll have a look at the river before we go back to 
the hotel," he said, as soon as we had regained level 
ground. " There must be a fine view from the suspen- 
sion bridge. The young man at the barber's said the 
cauld was quite close to the bridge." 

Just above the cauld the river bank rises to a con- 
siderable height, and its face between the water and 
the summit is thickly grown with trees and bushes. 
This high ground is known as the Weirhill. There 
are some seats at the top, and we were glad to rest 
ourselves and admire the prospect. Behind us, a green 
slope, on which stood the parish church, led down to 
the high road. 

" Some old ecclesiastic said that though, no doubt, 
God could have made a better berry than the straw- 
berry. He never did, in fact, make a better," observed 
Mr. Fairfield after a long silence. *' ' The bearing of 
this observation lays in the application on it,' " he 
added, turning to see if I had caught his meaning. 

"I certainly cannot imagine anything more beauti- 
ful," I admitted. 



WE CLIMB EILDON 213 

Looking Tweedward, across the fresh green of the 
trees, there was, that sunny afternoon, a view of hill 
and river softer and more alluring than anything we 
had seen in Scotland. Southward, beyond the church 
spire, rose the dour outline of the Eildons. 

" The weather is certainly settling; this sun is quite 
hot. I think I shall venture on a bath to-morrow." 

So said my companion, as he stretched himself 
luxuriously on the seat, and watched 'the thin blue 
smoke that rose straight up from the tip of his cigar. 
He had forgotten that icy shower on the hills. 

" This is a lovely river," he went on; "I never ex- 
pected to see anything like this. It's so clear, for one 
thing." 

"And it's so swift," I chimed in, with a fervour 
equal to his own. 

Mr. Fairfield rose to his feet with a jerk, and stared 
downward upon the current ; no mere curiosity or 
admiration could account for the intensity of his 
gaze. 

" This cauld can't be the work of the demon who 
' bridled the Tweed with a curb of stone,' " I continued, 
in meditative accents. " It's made of wood. Did you 
see those rusty nails sticking up in it? " 

" I did not observe them." He said this with a fine 
carelessness ; but the muscles of his face twitched. 

" I remember now, that young man told me, the best 
bathing place was about a hundred yards above it," he 
observed, after he had reseated himself. His eyes were 
fixed on the troubled water just below the dam as he 
spoke. 

"That seems reasonable. Did he, by-the-by, ask 
you at what hour you proposed to bathe ? " 

"I believe I said about eight o'clock. Do you sup- 
pose he had any motive in asking?" My friend was 
evidently growing suspicious of the young man. 

" Oh, no. I daresay he only wanted to bring a few 
of his friends to admire your swimming." 



214 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

The prospect of having an assemblage to witness 
his feats of natation seemed to give Mr. Fairfield no 
pleasure. 

"I shall not bathe to-morrow, anyhow," he said 
shortly. 



CHAPTEE XVII 

MELROSE ABBEY AND SIR WALTER'S GRAVE 

During our stay at Melrose we paid several visits to 
the Abbey. We both agreed that the place was some- 
thing of a disappointment. 

" I suppose I expected too much," said Mr. Fairfield 
one morning when we had the ruin to ourselves, and he 
had ventured to rest himself upon the stone which is 
pointed out as Scott's favourite seat; " Sir Walter did 
so much to save the place, and he was so enthusiastic 
over it, and one had heard so much about its exquisite 
beauty that, after all, a little disappointment isn't to be 
wondered at." 

" I certainly think we've heard a little too much about 
the carvings," I observed. 

" Oh, yes. They're wonderful, I daresay ; particularly 
wonderful considering their age, but that minute work 
doesn't appeal to me. When I'm told that a place is a 
superlatively beautiful ruin I expect something super- 
latively beautiful as a whole. Now, to my sweet, un- 
learned eye this ruin looks a bit heavy. I've stared at 
it from every point of view, and I think it looks heavy 
from all of them. I'm only an ignorant Philistine; 
but give me Dry burgh, say I." 

In the churchyard which adjoins Melrose Abbey my 
friend spent a long time in meditation before the tall 
red stone that marks Tom Purdie's grave. The inscrip- 
tion which Scott wrote is so beautiful that I cannot 
refrain from setting it out in its entirety : — 

215 



216 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

In grateful remembrance of the faithful and attached services 
of twenty-two years, and in sorrow for the loss of a humble but 
sincere friend, the stone was erected by Sir Walter Scott, Bart, of 
Abbotsford. Here lies the body of Thomas Purdie, wood-forester 
at Abbotsford, who died 29th October 1829, aged sixty-two years. 
" Thou hast been faithful over a few things, I will make thee ruler 
over many things." Matthew, Chap. XXV., v. 21. 

" ' A humble but sincere friend,' " quoted Mr. Fair- 
field approvingly. " Yes, that was well deserved. 
Scott treated all the humble folk about him as if they 
were his blood relations ; but there was only one Tom 
Purdie. Whenever you think of Scott out of doors at 
Abbotsford, there's always Purdie somewhere near him 
with his plaid. His death was a sore blow. It came 
at a time when Scott could ill afford to lose a friend. 
He was drawing near his own end in October, 1829. 
Only a few months before, he'd had a serious warning 
of apoplexy ; and no wonder ! Ever since the crash 
he'd been working like a galley slave to pay off his debts 
— killing himself, in fact. For ten years Tom Purdie's 
shoulder had been a support to him when they went 
about the estate together. There's a pretty passage in 
Lockhart about it. He says it was easy to see that the 
man's heart swelled within him from the moment the 
Sheriff got hold of his collar. Scott was fortunate in 
at least two of his retainers — Tom Purdie and Willie 
Laidlaw. Laidlaw was a very different stamp of 
man; but I'm sure he wouldn't have resented being 
called a retainer. And there was that good servant 
Nicolson, the valet who was with Sir Walter at the 
end." 

Melrose churchyard has many associations with Sir 
Walter. Of the " names he loved to hear " that are 
now carved upon the tombs of this churchyard, Tom 
Purdie's is only one of many ; on every hand we came 
across inscriptions referring to Scott's contemporaries. 
Still extant is the little tombstone bearing the poetical 
epitaph of which he is said to have been so fond : — 



MELROSE ABBEY 217 

The earth goeth on the earth, 

Glistring like gold, 
The earth goes to the earth 

Sooner than it wold ; 
The earth builds on the earth 

Castles and towers ; 
The earth says to the earth, 

All shall be ours. 

" I came across that in some book about Scott, years 
ago," said my friend. " It stuck in my memory, more 
or less, and I recognized it when I came across it again 
in the ' Life ' of Grimaldi, the clown. It was put upon 
his first wife's tombstone — at her own wish." 

" How came she to know of it? " 

" I can't imagine. Perhaps it's to be found elsewhere 
than in this graveyard. Her version was a little differ- 
ent, by-the-by. It was odd for a young woman to 
have such a fancy for the lines. She was only five-and- 
twenty when she died — that was in eighteen hundred." 

On one of our visits to the Abbey we fell in with the 
custodian; and for more than an hour he sauntered 
about with us, pointing out choice bits of the fabric, 
and drawing attention to matters of interest in the 
churchyard. We were tolerably familiar with the ex- 
cellent little guide-book which is his handiwork, but 
we soon discovered that he had not put into it a tithe 
of what he knew about his charge. 

Mr. Fairfield was eager to ascertain if the neighbour- 
hood contained any old people who remembered Scott. 
Our guide could name several old standards who pro- 
fessed to remember the funeral ; but he was doubtful 
whether any one still living could claim to have known 
Sir Walter. He told us, however, that a man named 
William Millar, who died in the spring of 1902, aged 
101, had often seen him, and had been intimate with 
Tom Purdie. This patriarch survived his friend by 
more than seventy years, but in the churchyard they 
now sleep almost side by side. 

" I wish Lord Gockburn could have seen our friend," 



218 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

said Mr. Fairfield after the custodian had left us. " In 
reference to these very ruins he made a complaint ahout 
the persons who watched over such places in Scotland 
in his time, and he wondered if there would ever be an 
improvement. I wish he could have seen the custodian 
at Eoslin too." 

" What had Lord Cockburn to complain of here? " 
" He didn't like Johnny Bower's appearance. He 
said he had a very whiskified visage. Even in his pri- 
vate diary a judge mustn't condemn a fellow-creature on 
such evidence as that; so Cockburn said that for all 
he knew Johnny might be a teetotaler. But it cer- 
tainly was the face that shocked his sense of propriety. 
He complained that Johnny's language was more in- 
flated than correct ; but he couldn't have thought that 
mattered. Washington Irving says the man wore a 
blue coat and a red waistcoat. Perhaps Lord Cockburn 
thought he ought to have worn wig and gown." 
" Johnny Bower was here in Scott's time ? " 
" Oh, yes ! I expect Scott got him his billet. Wash- 
ington Irving has a lot to say about him. It was Scott's 
son Charles who brought Irving here and introduced 
him to Bower. The little man was one of Scott's most 
fervent worshippers. He was a perfect Durdles in his 
knowledge of the nooks and corners of this place. Scott 
used to get a lot of fun out of him. One of Johnny's 
theories was that the Abbey looked better by the light 
of a candle than by the light of the moon ; and he used 
to insist that in order to get a really perfect view by day- 
light, a man must turn his back to the ruins, and stoop 
down till his head was between his knees." 

"I thought that was Johnny's grave when I first 
came on it," continued Mr. Fairfield, pointing to a 
tombstone a few feet distant from us, " but the age 
puzzles me. The John Bower of the inscription died 
in 1843 aged fifty-eight. Now, Washington Irving 
speaks of the Johnny Bower of 1817 as an old man. 
If that's right, this can't be he ; and yet Lord Cock- 



SIR WALTER'S GRAVE 21^ 

burn in 1840 spoke of the Johnny Bower of that time 
as having been custodian here for forty years. I wish 
I'd thought to ask our friend to clear up the mystery." 

Dryburgh Abbey lies within a pleasant walk of Mel- 
rose. The wise pedestrian will strike off the main 
road at the beginning of Newtown St. Boswells and 
make his way to the back of the Dryburgh Hotel, and 
along the very Scottish village street that leads to the 
burn. Once in the glen, the path to the high bank, 
which overlooks the suspension bridge, cannot be 
missed. The Abbey lies within a few hundred yards 
of the other side of this bridge. 

As we were passing the cottages that cluster near 
the entrance, a fat ancient collie strolled out into the 
pathway, and came up to us wagging his tail. Mr. 
Fairfield gave him a welcome that was almost effusive. 

The old Abbey of Dryburgh was a fabric of vast ex- 
tent. Its site is now a region of green lawns, bowery 
with foliage, but its ruins are still fringed by some of 
the ancient yews, which the monks planted in the days 
of its magnificence. We were told that one of these 
trees was 700 years old. 

St. Mary's aisle, which formed a part of the abbey's 
north transept, now stands wholly detached and partly 
ruinous. Behind the railing which protects the front, 
Sir Walter and his wife lie under a double tombstone. 
Their son, the second baronet and his wife, and also 
Lockhart rest by them. The two Scott graves lie 
from left to right ; Lockhart's is beside them with the 
foot towards the railing. The three tombs are close 
together, and they occupy the whole floor of the aisle. 
Lockhart's inscription is as follows : "Here, at the feet 
of Sir Walter Scott, lie the mortal remains of John 
Gibson Lockhart, his son-in-law, biographer and 
friend. Born lUh June 1794. Died 25th November 
1854." 

After we had examined the tombs, we strolled for a 
time about the ruins ; and then returning to St. Mary's 



220 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

aisle, we seated ourselves upon a stone coffin, a few 
paces in front of it. It was a bright warm afternoon. 

" That ' Here, at the feet of Sir Walter Scott,' is 
very touching," said Mr. Fairfield. " Dean Eamsey 
tells of an old Scottish servant, who said to her master 
when she was dying : ' Laird, will ye tell them to bury 
me whaur I'll lie across at your feet ? ' I wonder if 
Lockhart ever heard it ; it was his wish that he should 
lie at Sir Walter's feet. The last utterance but one 
that he records of Scott, was that admonition to him- 
self to be a good man — ' My dear, be a good man — be 
virtuous — be religious — be a good man. Nothing else 
will give you any comfort when you come to lie here.' 
When Scott spoke of lying here, he meant on his death- 
bed : but the words may have had a fuller significance 
to the other when his own time came, for he died at 
Abbotsford in the very next room. I've read Mr. 
Lang's ' Life,' and I think Lockhart might fairly com- 
fort himself with the thought that he had been a good 
man. There are some parts of the ' Life ' that only 
a good man could have written." 

" That eldest son died at forty-five," he went on. 
" He was a good man, too. How proud Sir Walter 
was of him, and of Lockhart as well ! He wasn't over- 
fond of the weedy type of humanity. I suspect Frank 
Osbaldistone was his favourite hero. I've often thought 
it was Lockhart's good looks that made Sir Walter take 
to him. He seems to have been extraordinarily beauti- 
ful in his youth, and he was a good horseman, and took 
his part in all the Abbotsford sports. He was only sixty 
when he died. They say he smoked too much — but 
they say that of everybody who smokes at all." 

Mr. Fairfield bent a loving glance on a big black cigar 
that he was preparing to light, as he uttered this. 

" There's a passage in one of Dickens' letters about 
Lockhart that I've often puzzled over," he resumed, as 
soon as the cigar was in full blast. " They were both 
in Italy not long before Lockhart died, and years after- 



SIR WALTER'S GRAVE 221 

wards, d propos of some paper for ' All the Year Bound,' 
Dickens wrote that Lockhart had been anxious to see 
him in Eome, and as they walked together there, 
Dickens knew very well that Lockhart knew very well 
why. Lockhart was dying then. Dickens said in the 
letter, that he was the ghost of the handsome man he 
had first known when Scott's daughter was the head of 
his house ; and that he had little more to do with this 
world than she in her grave, or Scott in his, or small 
Hugh Littlejohn in his. I can't imagine why Lockhart 
was so anxious to see Dickens, and Mr. Lang throws 
no light on it. There had been a review of ' Pickwick ' 
in the ' Quarterly ' which had displeased Dickens' ad- 
mirers, because it had a sting in its tail, but that can't 
have had anything to do with it ; for not long afterwards, 
Dickens dined with Lockhart at George Cruikshank's : 
and a very friendly article on ' Oliver Twist ' followed 
this. It was Scott's influence that got Lockhart the 
editorship of the 'Eeview'. Scott had to fight hard; 
for Lockhart had made enemies. He had a pretty turn 
for sarcasm, and when he went for a man, he cut to the 
quick." 

" How came Lockhart to die at Abbotsford ? " I asked. 

" I think his daughter owned it then, under the second 
baronet's will. All of Scott's children were dead by 
that time, and only Mrs. Lockhart had had children. 
When Lockhart died, there were no descendants of Sir 
Walter in existence except Lockhart's daughter and 
her baby daughter, Monica. Lockhart seems to have 
been very fond of that granddaughter. There are re- 
ferences to her in some of the letters set out in Mr. 
Lang's book." 

" I suppose Sir Walter was here when his wife was 
buried? " 

" Oh, yes ! There's an entry in the * Journal ' about 
it. He speaks of consigning the remains to the very 
spot which in pleasure parties they had so often visited. 
I fancy Lady Scott's funeral was a quiet affair. Dean 



222 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

Eamsey was the minister. Sir Walter's funeral was 
almost regal. The country people were nearly all in 
black. There was a large escort of yeomanry and a 
string of carriages more than a- mile long. Lockhart 
says that when the cof&n was taken from the hearse, 
a deep sob burst from a thousand lips. He was one of 
the pall-bearers. The coffin was carried to the hearse, 
and from the hearse to the grave, by Sir Walter's 
foresters and old servants. They had petitioned that 
there might be no hireling assistance. Scott was Sheriff 
of Selkirkshire ; and a little time before his death your 
Parliament had to make a law appointing a deputy. 
I've often meant to ask you to show me that law." 

On my return to Gray's Inn I looked up the Act re- 
ferred to. It is intituled "An Act to authorize His 
Majesty to appoint a person to act as Sheriff of Selkirk- 
shire during the incapacity of the present Sheriff". 
Scott was dead and buried before it was passed. It 
begins : " Whereas the Sheriff of the County of Selkirk 
in Scotland is incapacitated by disease from performing 
any of the functions of his office or appointing any sub- 
stitute for their due performance". I wondered, as I 
read the Act, how many of the persons who came upon 
it in the Statutes at Large for the last year of George IV, 
know that the sheriff referred to was Sir Walter Scott. 

We had many opportunities, during our stay at Mel- 
rose, of studying the manners and customs of the tourists 
who made that town their headquarters for exploring 
the Scott country. Nine out of ten of these visitors 
were Americans. The general programme was as 
follows : an early morning train brought in a party from 
across the Border, sometimes with a guide, sometimes 
without. A scamper through the abbey ruins was the 
beginning of the day's sight-seeing. Upon this, followed 
a jolt to Abbotsford in a brake. Lunch was the next 
item ; and another brake-ride having disposed of Dry- 
burgh, the pilgrims were ready for a train, taking them 
on to Edinburgh in time for dinner. 



SIR WALTER'S GRAVE 223 

One morning our breakfast-table was honoured by 
the presence of a young American who had actually 
spent a night in the hotel. He discovered Mr. Fair- 
field's nationality in no time, and he soon made it plain 
that, in his opinion, Melrose ought to think herself 
fortunate in having two such lords of human kind 
within her borders. I could make allowances for him, 
when I learnt from his outpourings, that he had been 
travelling about for more than two years. The globe- 
trotter whose progress is one untiring rush, comes into 
communication with nobody but guides and hotel- 
servants ; and as a result he moves in an unchanging 
atmosphere of homage and subservience. Under the cir- 
cumstances a man who, in his own country, has always 
been treated as of no account, is apt to lose his head. 

Unconscious of the tortures that he was inflicting 
upon Mr. Fairfield, our fellow-guest made himself very 
offensive to the waiter. My poor friend strove to con- 
ceal his agonies, but at last the provocation waxed too 
strong for endurance. When, for about the tenth time, 
our neighbour wanted something not on the table, 
his call met with no response ; for the man was busy, 
attending to someone else. A repetition of the sum- 
mons, conveyed in a voice that made several breakfasters 
glance over in our direction, drew from the victim a 
look and a gesture that were an appeal for mercy. The 
next instant the whole room was disturbed by the 
violent clattering of a teaspoon on a saucer. The 
waiter was at our table in a flash ; and in another flash 
he had disappeared to execute the order. 

" I guess we'll get this fixed up now, right away," 
drawled our neighbour, as he turned to his fellow- 
countryman for sympathy and applause. 

Mr. Fairfield fixed him with a stare that would have 
frozen the blood of an ordinary Christian ; and without 
shifting his gaze he rose to his full height. The next 
moment he had turned upon his heel with a jerk, and 
had stalked out of the room. 



224 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

" Old man shirty ! " was the surprised comment, 
addressed to me. The offender was disposed to treat 
the incident as a joke. 

I tackled him at once with professional suavity. 

" My friend is an American. I don't mind what you 
say or do; but I'm an Englishman. He's sensitive on 
the subject of his country." 

This shook the Huron, and he blushed. 

"Hadn't you better go and apologize to him?" I 
suggested, as I took up the * Scotsman ' ; " you can't 
apologize to the whole room." 

I preferred to keep my head behind the newspaper, 
until I heard my fellow-guest depart. It was not 
necessary to keep it there for long. 



CHAPTEE XVIII 

WE CLIMB SMAILHOLM TOWER 

" Theee are some folks who ought to be kept at home 
by force for their country's good," quoth Mr. Fairfield, 
when I joined him in our own room. 

" I had a turn at him after you had gone." 

"I heard you; I was listening at the door," My 
friend grinned as he made this confession. " Your 
magnanimity when you intimated that an apology to 
the whole room might be dispensed with nearly doubled 
me up." 

"I burned to avenge you," I explained. "I was 
thinking of what I suffered years ago. You know the 
Invalides in Paris, I suppose ? " 

My friend nodded. 

" Do you remember the tomb of Napoleon, there?" 

" Bight well ; it's the most impressive thing in 
Paris." 

" So everybody thinks. Well, there were several other 
visitors when I was there. "We had all taken our hats 
off. It's the rule ; but even if it wasn't, I think every- 
body would do it. The place is simply overwhelming. 
Presently a party of English tourists filed in. They 
were a shady lot, but every hat went off, except one. 
An attendant noticed this hat, and whispered something 
to the guide in charge of the party. He whispered 
something to the man with his hat on. 'What!' 
croaked the brute^ — you know the Cockney trick of 
sticking out the underlip and turning up the nose when 
15 225 



226 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

you want to be offensive. ' What ! — take off my 'at to 
a blankety carcase? Not me ! ' " 

" I don't think we shall meet our young friend at the 
tower," remarked Mr. Fairfield as we were spinning 
along on our bicycles that morning ; '* it's a bit too far 
off for a young gentleman in a hurry." 

We were on our way to Sandyknowe, to see the 
region where Sir Walter spent so much of his early 
childhood. We bowled along famously until we got 
within half a mile of our destination ; but the by-road 
that led to the farm-house grew somewhat villainous as 
we neared our goal. I rode warily, but Mr. Fairfield 
took the ruts as he found them. With his enthusiasm 
fairly ablaze, the machine might play cup and ball with 
him if it would ; and no groaning of the saddle springs 
could make him uneasy. 

" This must be the road the child came by," he ex- 
claimed exultingly, as he bumped up to my side; 
" there's no other that leads to the place. His grand- 
father lived there ; and he went to stay with him, be- 
cause it was hoped that country air would do him good. 
He was only three when he first came, and he was 
here a good deal till he was eight. Now, I've no doubt 
he was taken by coach from Edinburgh ; and someone 
from the farm met it at a cross road, just as Tom Pinch 
met the Pecksniffs when they came back from London. 
I daresay the vehicle was only a farm cart — farming 
folk were simple enough in 1774." 

" His grandfather would have been a fool to risk 
anything better on this road," was my comment. 

" We know from the miniature we saw in Edin- 
burgh what he was like at six," he went on, " and we 
know he was almost a cripple when he first came here. 
He must have been driven along this road many a time. 
I'll be bound he often held the reins when he grew a 
little bigger. You know how important a child looks 
when he's allowed to drive. Some youngsters are 
pretty free with the whip, too — not out of vice but out 



SMAILHOLM TOWER 227 

of thoughtlessness — but I don't think Walter Scott 
was ever one of them. It was on the farm here that 
he got his extraordinary love of animals. His great 
friend amongst the farm servants was the cow-bailie, 
who had charge of the sheep. The man used to carry 
him astride on his shoulder. The child loved to lie 
about the grass all day long in the midst of the flock ; 
and this fellowship gave him an affection for sheep and 
lambs that lasted all his life." 

Sandyknowe farm stands on the edge of a stretch of 
broken heathland, prodigal of furze and tall thistles, 
and with the grey rock outcropping everywhere. The 
present house is a substantial stone building, sheltered 
on two sides by trees. The road to the waste behind 
runs between the house and the farm buildings. Full 
in sight, and not a bow-shot distant, is Smailholm 
tower, standing four-square upon a high platform of 
solid rock. 

On the border of the waste land we left our bicycles 
to look after themselves and continued our way on foot. 

" Just think what a place this must have been to a 
child ! " said my friend, as for the twentieth time he 
checked at a cluster of harebells or a nodding spray of 
late foxglove. "In his eyes it must have seemed as 
vast as the great globe itself." 

The next instant Mr. Fairfield was on his knees at 
the base of a huge fragment of rock, which rose moss- 
grown and weather-stained from a peaty hillock. 

" What are these? " he exclaimed. 

" They're wild pansies." 

He produced a penknife and did some uprooting with 
a tender hand. 

" Pansies are for thoughts," said he, putting the 
plants into his cigar case, and filling it up with their 
native soil. " We must hope that these will survive a 
voyage across the Atlantic. I have more than one 
friend in Chicago who will be glad to get a pansy root 
from the Sandyknowe Crags. Do you remember the 



228 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

story about the lightning? The child was lying out 
here one day when a thunderstorm came on. He'd 
been forgotten ; and when his aunt remembered him, 
and rushed out to bring him home, she found him lying 
on his back, clapping his hands at the lightning, and 
crying out ' Bonny, bonny ! ' at every flash. This tower 
can't have altered much since Scott was a child. It 
looks as much a work of Nature as the rock itself." 

To our great joy we found the door unfastened. By 
the light of a match or two we groped our way up the 
worn stairs, and passed out on to the roof. Between us 
and the farm-house lay a sheet of water, full of reeds, 
and vocal with the cry of wildfowl. In the opposite 
direction, across a long stretch of open country inter- 
sected by hedges, rose the triple peak of the Eildons. 

" It's a wonderful prospect," said Mr. Fairfield, as he 
took a bird's-eye view of the country. " Scott laid the 
scene of his ' St. John's Eve ' in this tower. "When the 
Baron of Smailholm came to the lady of the ballad, she 
was looking out of a window : — 

He passed the court-gate, and he oped the tower-gate. 

And he mounted the narrow stair, 
To the bartizan seat^ where, with maids that on her wait, 

He found his lady fair. 
The lady sat in mournful mood ; 

Looked over hill and vale ; 
Over Tweed's fan' flood, and Mertoun's wood, 

And all down Teviotdale. 

When Scott was six they gave him a pony no bigger 
than a Newfoundland dog. He had grown robust by 
then, and the lame leg didn't interfere with his horse- 
manship. We're told he used to frighten his aunt 
Jenny by cantering over the rough places near this 
tower. And I'll be bound it didn't prevent him clamber- 
ing about this roof. When he grew a bigger boy he 
could climb like a wildcat. In a note to ' Eedgauntlet,' 
he says he used to climb the ' kittle nine-steps ' of the 
Castle rock. They were so precarious, that the" root of 



SMAILHOLM TOWER 229 

a nettle, which grew within reach of one of them, was 
thought a wonderful help. Even as a man of fifty he 
wasn't afraid of a bit of climbing. When the preserva- 
tion of the ruins at Melrose was in progress, he wrote 
to Lord Montague that he meant to get on to the roof 
and see for himself how things were." 

" I think I should like to see how things look from 
there," added Mr. Fairfield, pointing to the peak of the 
tower's roof ; and in another minute he had scrambled 
over the stone slabs and was sitting upon it. Though 
the climb was a short one and was not dangerous, it 
was, for a man of my friend's age, an enterprise of great 
pith and moment. Fired by his valorous example, I 
followed and seated myself beside him. 

" Scott never lost his interest in this place," he re- 
sumed. " He knew well enough that if he hadn't lived 
at Sandyknowe there would have been no poems or 
novels. I suppose he'd have died a judge — as it was, 
he could have done so if he'd chosen. And I daresay 
he'd have lived to be old ; but just think of what litera- 
ture would have lost, without his work." 

" Some modern writers say that his novels are too dull 
for modern readers ; and as for the poems, they're too 
unspeakable to be mentioned," I observed. 

Mr. Fairfield laughed. "It's the old story — 'some 
folks like parritch, and some folks like paddocks '. 
And I daresay the smart young gentlemen who sample 
our novels for us haven't read much of Scott. How 
can a poor devil, who has to look through a mountain 
of trash every week of his life be expected to read any- 
thing at all ? The mere sight of a printed page must 
be nauseous to him. And yet, how can any intelligent 
man, no matter how young he is, sniff at Scott's novels ? 
Just take ' Ivanhoe,' for instance. A man can read it 
all his life ; and he'll find it as good at eighty as it was 
at ten. I've been reading it, man and boy, for more 
than forty years. Leslie Stephen says somewhere that 
the beginning is the best opening of a story ever written. 



230 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

There's a curious anecdote about ' Ivanhoe ' in Payn's 
' Literary EecoUections '. I've got the book at the hotel. 
He and three friends once agreed that each should write 
down on a piece of paper his favourite incident in fiction, 
and two out of the four chose the scene where the Dis- 
inherited Knight enters the lists at Ashby and strikes 
Bois Guilbert's shield with the sharp end of his spear," 

" I rather think I should have given my vote for 
something Dalgetty says or does," said I. 

" If ever I come across any one snifdng at Scott, I 
comfort myself with a story about Thackeray. He told 
a brother novelist, it wasn't seemly to speak of Scott 
as an equal. ' Such men as you or I should take off 
our hats at the very mention of his name,' was what 
Thackeray said. And yet, if some critics are to be be- 
lieved, nobody's read, or deserves to be read nowadays, 
except the popular idol of the moment. But this only 
means, that those who read his masterpieces don't read 
Scott, or Thackeray, or Dickens, or Fielding — or even 
Macaulay, for that matter." 

" I wish Scott and Macaulay had met," he resumed. 
" I know they were in hostile camps, in a sense, for the 
' Edinburgh ' and the ' Quarterly ' men didn't mix we]l. 
But I don't think that need have made any difference 
with those two." 

" Perhaps not — before the Eeform question grew 
acute," I admitted. 

" There seems to me to have been something about 
both of them different from other authors. And they 
seem to me so much alike at bottom. They were both 
men of the world ; but that's not all I mean. There 
was a certain spaciousness about their outlook on the 
world." 

"That," said I, "is easily explained; they'd both 
been through the legal mill." 

" There may be something even in that," he ac- 
quiesced. " I've often wished they'd met, say at any 
time between 1823 and 1829. Macaulay admired 



SMAILHOLM TOWER 231 

Scott's writings, but he'd no sympathy with certain 
aspects of his character. That was why he refused to 
review the ' Life ' in the ' Edinburgh '. Macaulay 
hadn't read the full ' Journal ' ; so he didn't know Scott 
as his friends knew him and we know him. I feel sure 
the two would have hit it off all right if they had met. 
They were both so full of common-sense and so full of 
fun. I wouldn't have had them meet at Abbotsford ; 
the outdoor sports and the dogs would have bored 
Macaulay. They would have got on better in Castle 
Street. I was pleased to come across Macaulay in that 
panorama of Scottish worthies on the staircase of the 
National Portrait Gallery at Edinburgh. I don't think, 
by-the-by, the artist had dressed him quite as Trevelyan 
describes him." 

" How was that? " 

" He went about in new, dark kid gloves, with his 
fingers only half-way down the finger-stalls, and he had 
an inexhaustible succession of embroidered waistcoats. 
Trevelyan says he used to regard them with much 
complacency. It's a blessed thing when a biographer 
isn't afraid to put in a little touch like that. Waistcoats 
were important things fifty or sixty years ago. I'm 
glad we don't have to bother about them now." 

" A month or two before Scott, in his decay, went 
abroad as a last hope of getting well, he came here," he 
went on. " He made a last visit to many of his 
favourite spots. There's a beautiful bit in Mr. Lang's 
book about Lockhart's description of these visits, and 
certain other things that happened when Sir Walter 
was failing. Mr. Lang says, it surpasses all achieve- 
ments of biography and has no rival except the most 
exalted poetry. He's right, too. Let's go back to 
Dryburgh, and have another look at the ruins. It was 
there the lady of Scott's ballad ended her days. I think 
we shall find a road." 

" Scott professed to have always hated cats till he 
grew oldish," said Mr, Fairfield, in our room that even- 



232 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

ing, as he put down ' Humphrey Clinker,' and stroked 
the hotel tabby, which had followed him in and was rear- 
ing himself up to be petted. " In some letter or other 
which he wrote when he was almost fifty, he says he 
used to detest them ; and he speaks of his having taken 
to liking them, as a sign that he was growing old. I 
think he only meant he usen't to care for them in the 
way in which he always loved dogs. Lockhart says 
that the old tom-cat, Hinse of Hinsfeldt, used to sit on 
the top step of the ladder in the study at Castle Street ; 
and whenever Maida left the room, Hinse used to come 
down from his perch and take Maida's place by the 
footstool. And Washington Irving has a lot to say 
about the cat he saw at Abbotsford. Scott told him a 
good cat story there, d propos of a remark that cats 
were a mysterious kind of folk, and there was more 
passing in their minds than people knew of. He said 
that some poor man met one night in a lonely place a 
funeral procession of cats, all in mourning; and the 
corpse was a cat in a coffin covered with a black velvet 
pall. When he got home, he told his wife and children ; 
whereupon his own black cat raised himself from his 
place by the fire and exclaimed, ' Then I'm the king of 
the cats,' and vanished up the chimney." 

As my companion told this anecdote, he kept his eye 
on his tabby friend. The animal, however, affected to 
take no interest in it. Mr. Fairfield stroked its head as 
he went on — " I'm a judge of cats myself, and I under- 
stand something about them. This now, is a mouser, 
and isn't much given to being petted. He's what Sir 
Walter would have called ' a tolerably conversible cat '. 
I prefer the sleek type myself ; but it's a greater honour 
to be taken up by one of the hunting sort." 

" I suppose you were thinking of Sir Walter when 
you made such a fuss over that old dog at Dryburgh, 
the other day," said I. 

" True, O king ! I thought how he would have re- 
ceived him. He would have called him ' poor boy,' and 



SMAILHOLM TOWER 233 

asked after his rheumatism. When Maida was very old, 
Scott used to stroll to his quarters at the back of the 
house, and condole with him upon being ' so very frail ' ; 
and when Scott was at Naples in the spring before he 
died, we hear of his talking to a dog of Sir William 
Gell's ; and still later we hear of his telling a big Danish 
dog at Bracciano near Eome, that he was glad to see 
him, and that he had a larger dog at home. * I find 
my dogs' feet on my knees, I hear them whining and 
seeking me everywhere,' he wrote in the ' Journal,' 
when he saw ruin before him, and had to face the 
prospect of giving up Abbotsford; and down to the 
very end of his life we hear about them. When he left 
home for the last time, there were repeated instructions 
to Laidlaw to be very careful of the dogs, and every 
letter to him from abroad had something about them 
and the poor people. And when Scott came home, 
and the sight of the place brought back a gleam of 
memory to his sick brain, he sobbed and smiled over 
his dogs when they came up and fawned on him." 

There was a suspicious catch in Mr. Fairfield's voice 
when he came to this, and he stopped abruptly. 

" It wasn't only dogs or cats he was fond of," he 
resumed in his usual tone ; "it was all dumb animals. 
A few months before he went abroad for the last time, 
he roused himself, failing though he was, and in fear 
that he was losing his memory, when he saw a carter 
ill-treating a horse. The man was insolent ; and Sir 
Walter comforted himself with the reflection that 
though he was powerless in Lanarkshire, in Selkirk, 
where he was sheriff, such a thing wouldn't happen 
without punishment. Tennyson hit the right nail on 
the head when he called him a true gentleman, heart, 
blood and bone. It's a poor verse, but I like it : — 

great and gallant Scott, 

True gentleman, heart, blood and bone, 

1 would it had been my lot 

To have seen thee, and heard thee, and known. 



234 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

I don't wonder at any man wishing he'd seen Scott. 
I've often wished it myself. It would have been 
enough to get even a peep at him — just a ghmpse as he 
went by with Tom Purdie and the dogs." 

I was tempted to remark that the addition of some 
thirty years to my friend's age would be a high price to 
pay for such a recollection as this ; but he had spoken 
so wistfully that I turned my eye in his direction be- 
fore mocking him. He was lying back in his chair, 
with one leg thrown loosely over the other, and the cat 
purring on his knee. Under the gaslight, his grey hair 
with a bit of a wave in it, gleamed almost silvery, as 
he lay meditating ; his hands crossed behind his head, 
and a look of peculiar gentleness upon his upturned 
face. I held my tongue ; and the thought crossed my 
mind that, if Scott could have seen him at that mo- 
ment, his heart would have warmed towards the pil- 
grim from Chicago. 

'* By-the-by," he said to me, as we were parting for 
the night, "I think I shall venture on that bath to- 
morrow morning; I found out at the barber's to-day 
that the shop opens at eight, and the young man's 
always there first ; the proprietor told me so." 

I was in my tub next morning when I remembered 
Mr. Fairfield's parting words. The water was so cold 
that the mere thought of bathing in the Tweed made 
my teeth chatter. I dressed hastily, and sallied forth 
to the Weirhill. On warm mornings it was our custom 
to take a stroll before breakfast on that high ground ; 
when the weather was less genial we chose the passage 
which skirts the south side of the abbey churchyard. 

On my way up the hill, I saw my friend's figure upon 
the summit. He was standing in a meditative attitude, 
gazing across the river. He turned when he heard my 
footstep behind him. I noticed that his grey jacket 
was buttoned over a protuberance, which indicated the 
harbourage of some foreign matter. I could guess what 
that bulge meant. 



SMAILHOLiVi TOWER 235 

" You have been quick," said I. 

" I've not been in yet," he answered placidly. *' I 
suppose you're quite surprised? " 

I was not prepared to tell a lie of the necessary magni- 
tude ; so I said nothing. 

" I went down to the bank and had a look at it," he 
went on, " but the grass was too wet. My clothes 
would have been soaked if I'd put them down." 

" Why not put your towel under them? " 

" How could I dry myself with a wet towel? " 

I am no match for Mr. Fairfield at this kind of poker ; 
and the gravity with which he asked his question was 
so impenetrable that I nearly threw up my hand. By 
an effort, however, I managed to keep on. 

"When I was a boy," I observed, "we used to dry 
ourselves by running about." 

My friend looked down towards the water and took 
a relishing sniff of the morning air. The breeze had a 
fine edge on it just then ; it was raw as well as cold. 

"I never thought of that," he said drily. "It's a 
great pity ! This zephyr would have done the business 
in no time." 

A mental picture of the good man, careering up and 
down the valley without his clothes, was too much for 
me. When I laughed, he laughed too. 

" I hadn't the courage to venture in," he said. 
" When I left the hotel, I felt a deal of doubt about it ; 
so I didn't parade my traps " — here he patted the region 
of his bosom, — " and when I got down to the water I 
soon made up my mind. I must put this bathing into 
my chest of might-have-beens." 



CHAPTEE XIX 

WE RAMBLE ABOUT THE RHYMER'S GLEN AND FIND 
THE EILDON STONE 

" I FSBL a malignant satisfaction in the thought that 
those flying tourists can't get here," my friend re- 
marked one morning, as we strolled along a farm road 
which led, we were assured, to the foot of the Ehymer's 
Glen. " So far as I can make out, no one can see it 
without some walking." 

" That's hard on the infirm," said I virtuously. 
" Are we on the Abbotsford estate yet ? " 

" I'm not sure. We're quite close to the glen, and 
at one time Scott owned that ; but according to the 
map in my edition of the ' Journal,' it doesn't belong 
to the estate now." 

" I was wondering if he planted these trees." 

" I think we may assume he did ; they look to me 
about the right age." 

The day was bright and sunny, but a great deal of 
rain had fallen in the night : and when we came to the 
glen everything was glittering with moisture. No pen 
can describe the place as we saw it that morning, with 
the beech boughs meeting overhead, and with the full 
song of the burn in our ears. The linked sweetness of 
the Ehymer's Glen is long drawn out ; and no words of 
mine can bring before the eye the beauty that it wears. 

" Every able-bodied person who came to Abbotsford 
was taken through here." 

Mr. Fairfield said this after we had reached the little 
bridge above the waterfall. We had not exchanged a 

236 



THE RHYMER'S GLEN 237 

word since we began the ascent. " I don't wonder 
Scott was proud of it. He used to tell people that 
Tweedside was a 'liveable country'. How he must 
have laughed to himself over the adjective ! " 

" If we'd seen nothing else, since we left London, 
but this glen and the view from the Weirhill, I don't 
think we could say we'd done badly," was my admission. 

" Washington Irving came here with Scott and the 
dogs. How easy it is to picture Scott on his own land ! 
He wore a green jacket and white trousers. Washing- 
ton Irving said they were brown, but that was one of 
his blunders." My friend spoke of his countryman 
with some irritation. 

" That was careless of Washington," said I. 

" They were undoubtedly white," persisted Mr. 
Fairfield ; " and they were shortish, and he wore brown 
spats and shoes. Tom Purdie's rig-out was the same 
as his master's. Lady Scott used to hand over the 
things to him when she thought them too shabby for 
Scott. It's not difficult to fancy Sir Walter stumping 
along these paths with his guests, and telling them the 
legends of the countryside. He knew all the ballads 
too ; and he loved to repeat scraps of them. He used 
to laugh at himself for it. 'If you like a walk, I will 
bestow my tediousness on you at such-and-such an hour,' 
was his form of invitation to a guest. But I don't think 
he ever recited a line of his own." 

" That was a very excellent thing." I said this with 
a recollection of our first night in Edinburgh in my 
mind ; and I spoke with great conviction. 

" True ! I confess I shuddered more than once when 
I read Tennyson's ' Life '. He seems to have been 
very ready to oblige with readings from his own works. 
Just fancy having to sit out the whole of ' Maud,' or 
the ' Ode on the Duke of Wellington ' ! It would have 
given me the fidgets." 

" Those green jackets must have been almost uni- 
versal for country wear at one time," he went on. " We 



238 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

read that it used to be thought something of a distinc- 
tion for a man to wear one in court, under his gown, 
if he was going to leave Edinburgh when the court 
rose. It showed he was a laird as well as a lawyer. 
Scott was one of the last to exercise the privilege. He 
seems to have worn that jacket even in London. When 
he called at Charles Mathews' house in Lisle Street, 
Leicester Square, to ask him to lunch with Lord Byron, 
Mrs. Mathews was surprised to see him wearing a dark 
green coatee, single-breasted, something like a squire's 
hunting jacket. She says, too, he insisted on walking 
away in pouring rain. He refused an umbrella, and 
he told her he never considered any sort of weather an 
impediment to his moving about without any incum- 
brance. I'm afraid the habit had something to do with 
the terrible rheumatism which he mentions in the 
* Journal'." 

" Where are we going next ? " I asked. 

" There's a heath or something of the sort at the top 
of the glen. I want to see that, for it was there Scott 
told Captain Basil Hall about Thomas the Ehymer, 
before he took him down the glen. And then, I think, 
we might try and get a look at Chiefswood, where 
Lockhart and his wife set up housekeeping. As we 
■skirted Huntly Bum on the way here we must have 
been near it. We can ask the way at the cottage we 
passed on the right." 

We found the open ground at the top of the glen, 
and made our way through a field or two until we came 
to what was evidently the boundary of extensive pre- 
serves. Mr. Fairfield peered over the fence upon the 
well-timbered land on the other side. 

"Abbotsford, I feel sure," he said — "part of those 
young plantations he took such a pride in. He seems 
to have been as good at planting as he was at writing." 

" Chiefswood is on the estate," he explained, after 
we had retraced our steps through the glen, and had 
made inquiry as to our direction, " and so's Huntly 



THE RHYMER'S GLEN 239 

Burn, where the Fergussons lived in Sir Walter's time. 
That's a good big house, I fancy; but Chiefswood's 
quite a little place. So far as I can make out, we can't 
go far wrong if we follow this burn. These paths have 
a mighty private look about them; but I asked that 
man most particularly if we had a right to come this 
way, and he said yes." 

We were following the burn as he spoke. The way 
certainly looked like a path through a shrubbery ; and 
a moment later we saw in front of us a three-gabled 
cottage standing in a garden. The house had a porch, 
and was overhung with creepers ; and it stood on the 
other side of the green lawn, upon which our pathway 
opened. We both stole back, round a turn, and peered 
out. There was a lady watering flowers under the 
windows. It was manifest that we had almost burst 
into Chiefswood from the back. 

" She hasn't seen us," said Mr. Fairfield, with an air 
of relief ; and he turned to retrace his steps. 

" We really are not to blame," I urged. " Don't you 
think we might explain matters and ask to be let out at 
the front ? Melrose must be quite close ahead, and it's 
a long way, if we go back." 

" No," he said morosely ; ''I don't suppose she'd be- 
lieve a word of it. There's nothing too outrageous for 
some tourists. She'd think we'd done it on purpose. 
And I wouldn't force my way on to that lawn of all 
places in the world," he added. 

He spoke with so much conviction that I did not at- 
tempt to argue the matter; but, a little later, I pre- 
vailed on him to take a side path which, in the end, 
landed us in a road not far from the entrance to the 
house. I confess we had to skirt a field of oats, and 
climb over a fence ; but in all truth I can declare that 
though trespass was committed no injury was done to 
anything except my friend's raiment. He looked 
more than a little dishevelled by the time we were 
once more on the highway. Mr. James C, Fairfield, of 



240 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

Chicago, is not an agricultural character, and in his 
excessive anxiety to avoid injury to a single Abbotsford 
oat, he had pressed rather more closely into the hedge 
than v^as good for his wearing apparel. 

" I've been thinking about that lav^n ever since we 
left the glen," he explained after lunch. " Lockhart 
and Sophia Scott were quite a young couple. She was 
Scott's favourite child and he loved Lockhart. It was 
a great happiness to him to be able to establish them 
quite near him. She was dead before the whole of the 
' Life ' was published ; and when Lockhart wrote about 
that cottage he laid his heart bare. He doesn't do it 
again throughout the book. I think Mr. Lang says so. 
I've been re-reading it since we came back. When the 
old porch at Abbotsford was pulled down, Sir Walter 
with his own hands planted some of the creepers from 
it about a porch at Chiefswood, that had been specially 
erected for their reception. I wonder if that's the porch 
we saw. If you don't mind I'll read you a few passages 
from Lockhart about that garden we stepped into — they 
used to dine on that lawn. This is what he says about 
Chiefswood : — 

" There my wife and I spent this summei' and autumn of 1821 — 
the first of several seasons, which will ever dwell on my memory as 
the happiest of my life. We were near enough Abbotsford to par- 
take as often as we liked of its brilliant society ; yet could do so 
without being exposed to the worry and exhaustion of spirit which 
the daily reception of new comers entailed upon all the family ex- 
cept Sir Walter himself. But, in truth, even he was not always 
proof against the annoyances connected with such a style of open- 
house -keeping. . . . When sore beset at home in this way, he would 
every now and then discover that he had some very particular busi- 
ness to attend to on an outlying part of his estate, and craving the 
indulgence of his guests over-night, appear at the cabin in the glen 
before its inhabitants were astir in the morning. The clatter of 
Sibyl Grey's hoofs, the yelping of Mustard and Spice, and his own 
joyous shout of reveillee under our windows, were the signal that 
he had burst his toUs and meant for that day to ' take his ease in 
his inn '. On descending, he was to be found seated with all his 
dogs and ours about him, under a spreading ash that overshadowed 
half the bank between the cottage and the brook, pointing the edge 
of his woodman's axe for himself, and listening to Tom Purdie's 



THE EILDON STONE 241 

lecture touching the plantation that most needed thinning. After 
breakfast, he would take possession of a dressing-room upstairs, 
and write a chapter of ' The Pirate ' ; . . . whenever the weather 
was sufficiently genial, he voted for dining out of doors altogether, 
which at once got rid of the inconvenience of very small rooms, and 
made it natural and easy for the gentlemen to help the ladies, so 
that the paucity of servants went for nothing. . . . When circum- 
stances permitted, he usually spent one evening at least in the week 
at our little cottage ; and almost as frequently he did the like with 
the Fergussons, to whose table he could bring chance visitors, when 
he pleased, with equal freedom as to his daughter's. Indeed it 
seemed to be much a matter of chance, any fine day when there 
had been no alarming invasion of the Southron, whether the three 
famihes (which, in fact, made but one) should dine at Abbotsford, 
at Huntly Burn, or at Chiefswood ; and at none of them was the 
party considered quite complete, unless it included also Mr. Laidlaw. 
Death has laid a heavy hand upon that circle — as happy a circle I 
believe as ever met. Bright eyes now closed in dust, gay voices 
for ever silenced, seem to haunt me as I write. With three ex- 
ceptions, they are all gone. Even since the [fourth] of these 
volumes was finished, she whom I may now sadly record as, next 
to Sir Walter himself, the chief ornament and delight at all those 
simple meetings — she to whose love I owed my place in them — 
Scott's eldest daughter, the one of all his children who in counten- 
ance, mind, and manners, most resembled himself, and who indeed 
was as like him in all things as a gentle innocent woman can ever 
be to a great man deeply tried and skilled in the struggles and per- 
plexities of active life — she, too, is no more. And in the very hour 
that saw her laid in her grave, the only other female survivor, her 
dearest friend Margaret Fergusson, breathed her last also. — But 
enough — and more than I intended — I must resume the story of 
Abbotsford." 

" We must find the Eildon Stone," said my friend 
that afternoon. " It's on the road to St. Bos wells. 
We must have passed it two or three times. The tree 
that once stood by it has vanished. That's not wonder- 
ful, if Thomas used to stand under it when he had a 
bit of prophecy to let loose upon the neighbourhood. 
And the Bogle Burn's quite near. That was where 
Thomas was lying when he was carried off by the Faery 
Queen. Till I came into these parts I always supposed 
the stone and the burn were both in the Rhymer's 
Glen. I'm afraid Washington Irving was to blame for 
that." 
16 



242 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

I was turning over a guide-book as he spoke, and 

something in it caught my eye, 

*' Suppose we hunt up the stone before dinner," I 

suggested; "and how would it do to go to Dumfries 

to-morrow ? It's not very far." 

" Why on earth should we go there ? " 

" You wouldn't like to miss ' Burns' howff '." 

Mr. Fairfield smiled. "Is there only one?" he 

asked. 

" It would seem so from this. Listen : — 

" A narrow passage, under a globe on the left introduces us to the 
Globe Hotel ( ' Burns' Howflf '). Here it was that Bums foregathered 
with his friends, and his chair, boxed up to save it from the depre- 
dations of pilfering and scribbling tourists, occupies its old place in 
the nook which he made his own." 

My friend stretched out his hand for the book and 
read the passage for himself. When he spoke, I fancied 
those happy days at Chiefswood were in his mind. 

" That was the last of his styes, I suppose. Well, 
well, there's no accounting for tastes ! Now, if I were 
a worshipper of Eobert Burns, I should give that nook 
of his a wide berth. But some folks wouldn't rest till 
they'd seen Swift's strait-waistcoat; — if there were such 
a thing in existence." 

" I don't suppose many of the visitors see any differ- 
ence between Burns' seat in that tavern, and Sir 
Walter's chair at Abbotsford," I remarked. 

" I daresay not — to them it's where a great man 
sat ; and it's nothing more. They don't know of the 
degradation of those last years. Lockhart drew a veil 
over the last part of Burns' life ; but we've been told 
all about it since." 

The road to St. Boswells was easily found ; but 
though we scrutinized both sides of it with careful eyes, 
we could see no sign of either stone or burn. Not far 
from Newtown St. Boswells, we came upon some 
children in charge of two nurses and a governess. 

My friend's inquiry of the nurse who walked at the 



THE EILDON STONE 243 

tail of the party, was met by a curt " I don't know," 
delivered in a tone which seemed to suggest that to be 
asked about such a thing as the Eildon Stone was almost 
an indignity. The governess, who was pretty and of 
pleasant manners, made amends for this rebuff by assur- 
ing us that at one time there had been a stone and a 
tree near it ; but both had long since disappeared. 

" They're English, and don't know the country," I 
suggested, when we had got past them; "the stone 
must be here somewhere." 

" There must be the burn anyway," said Mr. Fair- 
field; "I wonder if that child can tell us anything." 
We were on the verge of the township by this time, 
and the child referred to was a little country boy playing 
with a top. 

" Do you know the Bogle Bum? " asked my friend. 

"Na." 

" Not the Bogle Burn? " Mr. Fairfield spoke gently, 
but doubtingly. 

" The Boglebu'n? " repeated the urchin, as he stared 
up at the questioner with his head on one side and his 
brow furrowed. " Na — Ye mean the Boggle Bur-r-rn," 
he cried out, as a sudden inspiration came upon him. 
He could not have been more than eight years old, 
but the contempt in his voice was unmistakable. 

"That's it!" 

"It's over the top of the hill." This "hill" was 
a rise in the road which we had just descended. 

"But we've come that way, and we didn't see it." 
Mr. Fairfield spoke almost piteously. 

There was no surprise in the child's face and he 
answered nothing. But the stare that he fixed upon 
my friend's pince-nez spoke for itself ; " You ought to 
have a dog and string," was what it said. 

" It doesn't run across the road? " 

''It does!" 

Delivered as that child delivered them, the two words 
were a direct impeachment of my friend's veracity. 



244 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

The poor man turned to me in despair. He had 
meant to put a question ; and in return had received a 
knockdown blow from a mite, who stood confronting 
him erect and firm, with a look of rebuke upon his 
chubby countenance. 

" It roons across in a pipe," asserted the imp, by 
way of driving his reproof home. 

" That lad ought to be made a church officer," was 
Mr. Fairfield's comment, as we retraced our steps. 
"He had his head screwed on the right way; but if 
the ' excellent of the earth ' were like him, I don't 
wonder eighteen thousand of them were slaughtered." 

" This must be it," he exclaimed, when at length we 
found, on the right-hand side of the road, a scrap of 
stone wall with a tiny stream running through a 
channel under it. "I don't wonder we missed it. 
But where on earth is the stone ? " 

" Perhaps this isn't the burn at all," I suggested. 
The shades of evening were beginning to fall, and I 
was growing weary. " Hadn't we better give it up? " 

My indefatigable friend had produced, a guide-book 
from his pocket, and was poring over it in the failing light. 

" It says the stone is on the road to St. Boswells. I 
mean to find it. I know it's near the burn ; though 
this fool of a map marks that as running through the 
Bhymer's Glen. That's the way guide-books are com- 
piled. I wish I had the jackass here," he added 
viciously. 

" He's only fallen into Washington Irving's mistake." 

" Washington Irving was at least consistent in his 
mendacity," snapped my companion. " He put the 
stone and the burn and the glen all together. Here's 
another child; I'll ask her." 

" Perhaps she won't understand you." 

" She shall ! " He spoke with savage energy as he 
turned towards a girl in a pinafore, who was watching 
us from the middle of the road. The little maid and I 
had already exchanged confidential glances at his expense. 



THE EILDON STONE 245 

As my friend paused, to frame a question that could 
not be misunderstood, the bit lassie looked up into his 
face with a smile that seemed to bid him not be afraid 
of her. She was a pretty picture as she stood, demure 
and yellow-haired, with that sweet confidence in her 
aspect. An answering smile, half-whimsical and half- 
paternal, was on the tall stranger's lips, as, with a 
polite hand hovering in the region of his hat brim, he 
addressed her in honeyed accents : — 

" Lassie wi' the lint-white locks ! bonnie lassie ! Is 
yon the Boggle Bur-r-r-r-r-run ? " 

There were no cross purposes this time; we were 
speedily assured that the burn was running under our 
feet, and the stone was a little way ahead of us, on the 
left-hand side of the road. And more than this — it had 
a road-mark on it. 

Sure enough, there it lay under the very shadow of 
the Eildons; a mossy fragment of rock, deep-sunk in 
the bank, with a flat top, bearing the impress of the 
broad arrow. 

"Do you remember Hester?" asked Mr. Fairfield, 
as we turned our faces towards Melrose. " That child 
was like her ; grown a little older : — 

Hester stands on the garden plot, 
Swinging her bonnet, and all forgot ; 
Croons to Tippo, who heeds her not, 
Spread in the sunshine and lazy : 
Three-year-old in the garden there, 
Dove-eyed innocence, quaintly fair ; 
Snow-white pinafore, golden hair — 
Mother's own wee, white daisy." 



CHAPTEE XX 

BY THE TOLL-HOUSE ON THE SELKIRK ROAD 

The first part of the way to Abbotsford lies along the 
road by which we came into Melrose from Galashiels. 
For more than an hour before we started on this pil- 
grimage, Mr. Fairfield had pored over his memoranda, 
and made frequent reference to the ten volumes of 
Lockhart which were spread out before him. 

He was in a brown study before we were clear of 
Melrose, and the stoop in his walk, and the hands 
loosely clasped behind him, warned me that he was in 
no mood for conversation. We had almost reached 
the fork in the road, hard by Melrose bridge, when he 
broke the silence. 

" I suppose you've been reading up Abbotsford in the 
guide-books," said he. 

"No," I answered; "I relied upon your telling me 
about it." 

He stopped dead for a moment, and looked hard at 
me. I had spoken without malice, and I met his gaze 
without concern. 

" I'm afraid I'm very tedious sometimes," he said 
apologetically. 

" Not to me, Fairfield. I was quite serious when I 
said that. If I found you tedious, I shouldn't be so ready 
to place myself in your clutches. I'm a free agent." 

" There's something in that," he answered laughing. 

" "We might rest a bit on this rail," he suggested, 
when we came to the finger-post. " I want to have- 
another look at one or two things." 

246 



ON THE SELKIRK ROAD 247 

" That cottage with the garden used to be a toll- 
house," he said, as he began to turn over his sheaf of 
memoranda, " and I think it was there Scott used to 
drop his coach-parcels addressed to James Ballantyne 
— instalments of the novel in hand. I've no doubt the 
carriage crossed the river yonder, when they brought 
Scott home ; the arches of the bridge are new, but the 
approaches are very ancient. He wasn't very happy 
when he was abroad. I don't think he knew how ill 
he was ; there was softening of the brain going on, you 
know. It was home-sickness that troubled him. He 
wanted to be back here — ' my own Tweedside,' he 
called it. He was in loving hands all the time. His 
son Walter and his daughter Anne left England with 
him. Walter had to leave when they got to Naples, 
but the younger son, Charles, joined them there, and 
came to England with them. And there was that 
good man Nicolson, and I think there was a maid as 
well. He made a short stay at Bome ; but when he 
left there, he was so impatient to get home that he 
wanted to travel day and night. At Nimeguen he had 
a stroke of apoplexy and paralysis ; a much more severe 
one than he had had before, and they brought him to 
London barely conscious. He lay there for nearly a 
month, sometimes better and sometimes worse; but 
whenever he was at all himself he was eager to be 
taken home. They let him have his way at last. 
They took him by steamer to Newhaven, and stayed 
for two nights in Edinburgh. They started for Abbots- 
ford very early in the morning. He had to be carried 
to his bed in the carriage. He had been slung from 
the steamer quite unconscious, and he was just the 
same that morning, till they got near Galashiels — that 
was over thirty miles from Edinburgh — but then he 
began to look about him. I'd rather tell you what 
followed in Lockhart's own words," my friend went on, 
as he turned over his bundle of notes in search of the 
memorandum he wanted. " Here it is : — 



248 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

" But as we descended the vale of the Gala he began to gaze about 
him, and by degrees it was obvious that he was recognizing the 
features of that familiar landscape. Presently he murmured a 
name or two — 'Gala Water, surely — Buckholm — Torwoodlee'. 
As we rounded the hill at Ladhope, and the outline of the Eildons 
burst on him, he became greatly excited, and when, tumiag him- 
self on the couch his eye caught at length his own towers, at the 
distance of a mile, he sprang up with a cry of delight. The river 
being in flood, we had to go round a few miles by Melrose bridge ; 
and during the time this occupied, his woods and house being within 
prospect, it required occasionally both Dr. Watson's strength and 
mine, in addition to Nicolson's, to keep him in the carriage. After 
passing the bridge, the road for a couple of miles loses sight of 
Abbotsford, and he relapsed into his stupor ; but on gaining the 
bank immediately above it his excitement became again ungovern- 
able." 

Mr. Fairj&eld replaced the note from which he had 
been reading, and we both meditated for awhile in 
silence. 

" If anyone had been sitting here that morning, he 
could almost have touched the carriage as it came round 
there," said my companion at length, pointing to the 
toll-house. " It must have been a sizeable vehicle, 
like the one Dickens took to Italy, and it must have 
been shut up that day. It was big enough to hold a 
bed ; and besides Scott, there were Lockhart and his 
wife, and Anne Scott, and Cadel the publisher, and a 
Dr. Watson and Nicolson. There must have been a 
mountain of luggage too. They must have had four 
post-horses and a postilion. They'd be coming slowly 
towards the turn ; for there was the toll to be paid — the 
postilion would be getting that ready. Then the gate on 
that side, and the gate on the other side, would fly 
open ; the postilion would crack his whip, and in an- 
other instant the whole concern would vanish round 
that curve on the left. I wonder if they've still got the 
carriage at Abbotsford." 

" Perhaps you'll like to see what Lockhart says about 
his arrival there," he went on, as he picked out an- 
other scrap of manuscript. " You can read this for 
yourself." 



ON THE SELKIRK ROAD 249 

There were only six or seven lines of his clear minute 
handwriting on the paper that he handed to me. The 
matter was as follows : — 

Mr. Laidlaw was waiting at the porch, and assisted us in lifting 
him into the dining-room, where his bed had been prepared. He 
sat bewildered for a few moments, and then resting his eye on 
Laidlaw, said — "Ha ! Willie Laidlaw ! O man, how often have I 
thought of you ! " By this time his dogs had assembled about his 
chair — they began to fawn upon him and lick his hands, and he 
alternately sobbed and smiled over them, until sleep oppressed 
him. 

" He seemed better for a few days," said Mr. Fairfield 
as he absently tapped the sheaf of notes with his pince- 
nez. " Lockhart and Willie Laidlaw wheeled him about 
the garden and the ground-floor rooms in a chair. It 
almost seemed possible that the joy and relief of being 
home again might work a cure. One morning he asked 
to be wheeled into the library that he might look down 
upon the Tweed. Lockhart read the fourteenth chapter 
of St. John to him there." 

" Isn't there some incident of his dropping his pen ? " 
I asked. " I'm sure I've seen it referred to in one of 
your books as the most pathetic thing in literary history." 

" That was in the study a day or two later. My notes 
are made out according to rooms, and I've got one on 
that. It's only a copy of Lockhart." 

I took from him another fragment of manuscript and 
read it to myself : — 

On Monday he remained in bed, and seemed extremely feeble ; 
but after breakfast on Tuesday the 17th he appeared revived some- 
what, and was again wheeled about on the turf. Presently he fell 
asleep in his chair, and after dozing for perhaps half an hour, started 
awake, and shaking the plaids we had put about him from oflF his 
shoulders, said — " This is sad idleness. I shall forget what I have 
been thinking of if I don't set it down now. Take me into my own 
room and fetch the keys of my desk. " He repeated this so earnestly 
that we could not refuse ; his daughters went into his study, opened 
his writing-desk, and laid paper and pens in the usual order, and 
I then moved him through the hall and into the spot where he had 
always been accustomed to work. When the chair was placed at 



250 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

the desk, and he found himself in the old position, he smiled and 
thanked us, and said — '' Now give me my pen, and leave me for a 
little to myself". Sophia put the pen into his hand, and he en- 
deavoured to close his fingers upon it, but they refused their office 
— it dropped on the paper. He sank back among his pillows, silent 
tears roUing down his cheeks ; but composing himself by and by, 
motioned to me to wheel him out of doors again. Laidlaw met us 
at the porch, and took his turn of the chair. Sir Walter, after a 
little while, again dropt into slumber. When he was awaking, 
Laidlaw said to me — " Sir Walter has had a little repose ". " No, 
Willie," said he — " no repose for Sir Walter but in the grave. " The 
tears again rushed from his eyes. "• Friends," said he, " don't let 
me expose myself — get me to bed — that's the only place." 

" Scott lived for rather more than two months after 
the pen fell from his fingers. It was James Payn who 
called it the most pathetic incident in the annals of 
literatm:e ; and he says that a famous writer to whom 
he spoke of it — he doesn't give the name, but I think 
it was Thackeray — met him with — ' For God's sake 
don't talk of it : it is what we must all come to '." 

We had resumed our journey by this time ; and as 
my friend said this, we were passing the curve in the 
Selkirk road, round which he had seemed to watch 
Scott's carriage disappear. Not another word did he 
utter until we had reached Abbotsford, and had made 
our way to a small reception room in the basement, 
where a tribe of pilgrims was already in waiting to be 
shown over the house. 



CHAPTEE XXI 

ABBOTSFORD HOUSE 

" Why, there's old Braxy ! " said my friend with great 
animation. He had been cruising about the httle 
room and examining the pictures. Sure enough, there 
was an engraving of the Parliament Hall picture, 
fatuously benevolent as the original ; and near it hung 
a portrait of Lord President Dundas. 

" I wonder if these two were in the old man's office. 
They're just the sort of thing he would have." Mr. 
Fairfield was making a furtive memorandum on his 
shirt-cuff, as he said this. 

When we and the other pilgrims moved off, it was 
under the charge of a guide of the gentler sex ; and 
the first room to which she took us was the study. Its 
dimensions are not striking, but it is light and lofty, 
and the window looks out upon an enclosure of green 
turf and flower-beds. Fortunately for us, the party of 
visitors was a large one ; and our guide's exposition, 
and the fire of question and answer that it provoked, 
gave us ample time to look about for ourselves. I can 
remember that the room has a gallery running round 
it, and there are many shelves of books ; but I confess 
I can recall nothing else very clearly, except the desk 
and the large armchair drawn up to it. As soon as 
one catches sight of these objects, and a picture of that 
heart-breaking incident of the pen flashes on the in- 
ward eye, it is not easy to devote one's attention to 
details. Perhaps it was in this room that Mr. Fairfield 
drew my attention to a carved chair standing in a 

251 



252 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

corner, and told me that it was made of wood which 
had formed part of the house in which "Wallace was 
betrayed, and that it was mentioned in Lockhart. 

" It's not a big room," mmrmm-ed Mr, Fairfield in 
my ear, as we stood on the outskirts of the little crowd, 
" but he chose it because it was the only one of the 
sitting-rooms that had a south aspect. He liked to 
work in bright sunshine. That green garden outside 
is where Lockhart and Laidlaw wheeled him about. 
And you see those ? " He pointed to the desk and 
chair, and there was a note of awe in his whisper. 

" He was fond of that," he resumed, pointing to a 
picture of the Canterbury pilgrims over the mantelpiece. 
" He used to draw his visitor's attention to the young 
squire's face. Let us have a look at it." 

A minute or two later, when we had crossed over to 
the foot of the stairway that leads to the gallery, I felt 
a touch on my arm, and I saw that Mr. Fairfield was 
pointing to some books on the shelves near us. They 
were volumes of the " Moniteur," and there were many 
of them. 

" He got them for the ' Life of Napoleon '. I hate 
the sight of them ; they wore his eyes out so. Lock- 
hart used to find him here, stooping over them with his 
spectacles on, and making extracts into a little book, 
that he held in one hand." 

In a closet which leads out of the study is a bronze 
cast of Scott's death-mask. 

"Poor old chap! Poor old chap!" murmured Mr. 
Fairfield in a choky whisper, as soon as his eyes fell 
upon it. The feeling and reverence of his tone made 
amends for the famihar character of his words, and my 
own heart echoed the emotion that lay behind them. 

The dead face is so tired that nobody can look upon 
it without a gush of pity, and a feeling of thankfulness 
that at last the man is in his grave. "We are not moved 
by the grandeur of its modelling ; the appeal it makes is 
to a larger humanity than that. It is the face of a 







O s 









ABBOTSFORD 253 

brother man, stretched out too long upon the rack of 
this tough world. The majesty of the forehead, and 
the dour earnestness of the features, tell of Walter Scott 
the genius ; but it is in the corners of the mouth that 
all the pathos lies. In them, there is the droop of an 
infinite weariness, and it makes the heart ache. 

"Do you call turret-rooms like that 'closets' in 
Scotland? " asked Mr. Fairfield of our guide, as soon as 
we were back in the study. 

" Yes, that's what we call them ; but Sir Walter used 
to call that one a speak-a-bit. If he wanted to speak 
privately to somebody for a minute or two, and there 
was any one else here, he could take them in there." 

My friend shrank from making a note on the spot ; 
but he had no intention of entrusting this precious scrap 
to the sole custody of his memory. He took measures 
to be the last of the procession when it moved onward ; 
and casting back a look over my shoulder, I saw him 
make a hurried jotting with a pencil upon his wrist- 
band. 

A door leads from the study to a corner of the great 
library. This is a room of noble proportions, oak 
panelled as to walls and ceiling, and with three big 
windows looking out upon the Tweed. Apart from 
the 20,000 volumes which it contains, there are treasures 
and curios enough to keep a connoisseur busy for weeks. 
The most prominent object is a gigantic portrait that 
hangs over the mantelpiece. This is the second baronet 
when a young man ; and it shows him in the uniform 
of a cornet of hussars, standing by his horse's head. 

" It was here that Lockhart read to him the four- 
teenth chapter of St. John : ' In 'my Father's house are 
many Tnansions,' comes in that chapter," whispered 
Mr. Fairfield, when we stood in the wide recess of the 
middle window. " He asked to be wheeled here, so 
that he could look at the Tweed. This library must 
communicate with the great hall, for he was wheeled 
up and down them both. He kept saying : ' I have 



^54 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

seen much ; but nothing like my ain house — give me 
one turn more '." 

In that recess is a glass case, containing a number of 
Sir Walter's curios, supplemented by a few additions 
made by his successors. Among these additions is one 
of Queen Victoria's chocolate boxes. The guide told 
us that this had come from " the heir," who had served 
in South Africa, and was now with his regiment in 
India. 

In the library Mr. Fairfield was too much engaged in 
listening to the guide to favour me with many whispered 
communications. He had come to Abbotsford with a 
conviction that he would learn more by using his own 
«yes than by paying heed to what the custodian might 
say ; but that little observation about the " speak-a-bit " 
had wrought a wonderful change in his opinion, and 
thenceforth he showed a strong inclination to be in the 
forefront of the party when any exposition was on foot. 
When we were told that the gasolier was the one put 
up under Sir Walter's direction, he even ventured upon 
an observation. 

" He used to make the gas here, I think." 
" Yes ; it used to be made in a little room under the 
terrace." 

" It wasn't a great success, was it? " 
" No, indeed ! " This was said with great decision. 
" Our young-lady guide knows a thing or two," he 
whispered to me, as soon as opportunity offered. " That 
about the gas is in Lockhart, but that ' speak-a-bit ' 
was new to me. I'll be bound she could give one many 
odd bits of information about the place, if one only had 
the luck to come here on a slack day," 

The drawing-room is shown next after the library. 
Here our guide mentioned that the paper on the wall 
came from China and was put up when the house was 
built. 

" He abandoned this room to Lady Scott's taste," 
explained Mr. Fairfield in my ear ; " but I think that 



ABBOTSFORD 255 

paper was a present to hini — Lockhart mentions it — 
and he must have had a hand in putting Dryden's por- 
trait here. The one next it, in the red cap, is Hogarth. 
That, I think, has been moved from the dining-room 
since his time." 

During our progress through the study, the library 
and the drawing-room, my friend had abstained from 
consulting any of his memoranda. In the armoury, 
however, the temptation to take just one peep was too 
strong to be resisted. 

" I've got a note about that ; but I can't remember 
what it is," he whispered, when the guide was drawing 
attention to the picture of Muckle-mouthed Meg ; and 
a little later I saw him in the background peering into 
an open pocket-book. The light was somewhat dim ; 
and as he stood with the book close to his eyes, he 
looked like some good priest wholly absorbed in the 
study of his breviary. 

Presently he came back, and communicated the re- 
sult of his investigation. 

" When Scott was at Malta, on his way to Naples, 
he talked about that picture to a little party of friends ; 
and long before that he showed it to Washington 
Irving and told him the story. When Scott was 
young he thought of making a ballad out of that story. 
He never did it ; but, I daresay you remember. Brown- 
ing did. It's in that last volume of his." 

The tour of inspection ends with the entrance hall ; 
the dining-room, which was Scott's bedroom from the 
time of his last return to Abbotsford, down to his death, 
is not shown to the public. Near the doorway giving 
access to the hall from the " little pleasaunce," is a 
glass case containing the last clothes that he wore be- 
fore he took to his bed. There is a white beaver hat, 
a bottle-green coat, a striped waistcoat with silver 
buttons, a pair of shepherd's plaid trousers, a pair of 
drab gaiters, and a pair of shoes. I noticed that the 
inside of the right shoe was raised from the arch of the 



256 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

instep to the heel. I turned to Mr. Fairfield to draw 
his attention to this, but I found he was no longer by 
my side. He was standing at the main entrance to 
the hall, and taking a careful and very deliberate 
survey of the three sides within his range of vision. I 
noticed that the expression of his countenance was 
somewhat acid. 

" I was trying to identify the doors," he said, when 
I stepped up to him. "I've tried ever since we started 
to keep my bearings right, but I'm not sure I've suc- 
ceeded. That's the armoury on the left ; and I think 
the first door on the right of the fireplace in front of 
us must be the drawing-room and the other the library. 
That chair must have been wheeled into this hall 
through the door behind us, and into the library 
through that second door. "What the door in the right- 
hand wall is, I'm not sure ; but it ought to be the study." 

The correctness of my friend's surmise was soon 
verified. Within a minute or two the whole party had 
filed through the door in question, and were standing 
in a lobby from which the study door opened. This 
was the end of the grand tour. 

" I should like to see the place from the other side of 
the river," said my unwearied fellow-rambler, when we 
were once more upon the Selkirk road ; and he spoke 
with evident longing. "You go straight on past the 
entrance lodge, and cross the ferry ; our guide told me 
so. It's a mile or two, I am afraid ; but the road runs 
through the estate, and we should see his trees. What 
do you say about lunch? — can it wait? " 

In the face of such an appeal as this, what could a 
man say ? "I should be sorry to miss the view from 
the opposite bank," I asserted manfully ; and the joy 
that beamed upon my friend's countenance almost re- 
conciled me to an indefinite postponement of the mid- 
day meal. 

" How on earth did you pick up so much knowledge 
of the inside of the house ? " I asked. 



ABBOTSFORD 257 

" There's a good bit of information about Abbotsford 
scattered up and down Lockhart, and in one place he 
sets out a pretty full description of the house that ap- 
peared in some annual or other for 1829, or thereabouts. 
Allan Cunningham * edited ' it ; I suppose the truth is, 
he wrote it. It pretends to be written by an American 
visitor. "Why on earth the man couldn't set down what 
he saw, without putting it into the mouth of some 
dummy American, I don't know. Tom-foolery I call 
it." 

" I suppose there were plenty of American visitors 
even in Scott's time." 

"Plenty! The supply never fell short of the de- 
mand." Mr. Fairfield said this with some dryness, but 
presently he burst out laughing. 

" It's too good to keep dark," he said. " I was think- 
ing of a story that Lockhart tells. Two New Eng- 
landers called there in Scott's absence ; and on the 
strength of certain letters of introduction, which they 
spoke of, but didn't produce, Lady Scott entertained 
them till he came back. They had lunch with her. 
When he arrived it turned out that they'd come with- 
out any credentials at all, and he showed them to the 
door. The cream of the joke lay in the fact that they 
were both rigged out in the Macgregor tartan." 

" Who were they? " 

" The names aren't given; but I remember one was 
a lawyer." 

"And the other?" 

" He was a Unitarian minister." 

"Why were you so discontented in the hall?" I 
asked. 

" I'm not sure the public ought to see those clothes. 
I was quite prepared for the glass case, for it's mentioned 
in one of Dickens' letters. He saw it when he went 
to Abbotsford, and he didn't like it. He called it a 
'vile glass case'. When one remembers that they're 
the clothes Scott wore during those last days that 
17 



258 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

Lockhart describes, it seems almost sacrilege to let 
Tom, Dick and Harry stare at them." 

" What did you think about the death-mask? " 

" I can't make up my mind, but I've a sort of im- 
pression that, if it were mine, I shouldn't let outsiders 
see it." 

" Scott was a public man," I urged. 

" Yes, to a certain extent he was, but the public 
never saw him look like that. And I'll tell you what 
weighs with me ; when I saw that death-mask I felt 
uncomfortable. I think one's first impulse in such 
matters is often right." 

" I felt a touch of that myself," I admitted. 

"Did you ever see anything more dead-tired ? I could 
think of nothing but those lines of Milton, that Charles 
Lamb had in his mind when he wrote about his own 
father : — 

How gladly would I meet 
Mortality my sentence, and be earth 
Insensible ! how glad would lay me down 
As in my mother's lap, there should I rest. 

And he looks something more than tired, you know. 
There's no weakening in the face; no suggestion of 
second childhood; but there's a something about the 
mouth that reminded one of a child I know out yonder." 
As Mr. Fairfield said this, he waved a hand westward 
to indicate that he referred to Chicago. 

"He's a small enemy of the human race, who calls 
me ' the old man,' " he went on. " Now, it made me 
think of how he looks, when he's been disappointed of 
something he wants real bad, and he's trying his level 
best to let on he don't keer." 

" Possibly somebody else looks a bit down in the 
mouth when that happens." 

I ventured to put this forward ; for though, beyond 
the fact that he was a widower of long standing, I knew 
little of my friend's domesticities, he had mentioned this 



ABBOTSFORD 259 

child once before ; and now his tone and his odd lapse 
into what was presumably the language of small citizens 
out West, seemed almost to invite the inference. 

Grandfather Fairfield kept his own counsel, but his 
smile was so amiably self-conscious, that I hazarded a 
bolder flight. 

"Yes, sir! When the old man's foolin' round out 
yonder, I guess that underlip gets fixed-up right away." 

Mr. Fairfield was good enough to reward my effort 
with a laugh. " Not so bad for a first attempt," he 
said encouragingly ; " with a little practice, you'll soon 
get to playing cymbals at the breakfast-table. But, 
underlip or no underlip, he shan't be brought up in that 
fashion." 

" When I was in the library," he resumed, " I spied 
about for the books Sir Walter bought in Naples, but 
I couldn't see them. He took it into his head to have 
them bound in vellum. That was odd, for blue morocco 
was what he went in for, in a general way. And, by- 
the-by, did you notice that portrait over the mantel- 
piece?" 

" I thought it was an eyesore." 

" So it is. One wouldn't have the thing moved on 
any account ; he put it there and no doubt he thought 
it beautiful. He was proud of the boy, for one thing ; 
and his eye was accustomed to that sort of plumage. 
I daresay his own yeomanry rig-out wasn't much less 
astonishing. No, it wouldn't do to move it, but it's a 
thousand pities he didn't hand it over to Lady Scott, 
for the drawing-room. A man doesn't look like a human 
being when he's got a waist like a wasp, and there's a 
tom-fool hat cocked over one eye. He's no ornament 
to a library." 

" His memory is still green on the countryside," said 
Mr. Fairfield poetically, as we left the ferry behind us. 

" The visitors may have something to do with that," 
I hinted. " Diana was well spoken of in Ephesus, as 
I think I remarked to you once before." 



260 HAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

" I grant all that, but it doesn't account for the in- 
terest the people hereabout take in you, when they find 
you take an interest in him." 

It was the conduct of the ferryman that had suggested 
this topic. As soon as he found that we wanted to see 
Abbotsford from the bank, he was all alive to help us. 
Not only did he give us most minute directions while 
we were in the boat, but after we had landed he stood 
watching us until we were fairly in the right way. 
Once when we hesitated by a swing-gate near the rail- 
way station, he made the welkin ring in his efforts to 
keep us from straying. 

" Lord Cockburn speaks of the pride the Selkirk 
people showed in his statue there," my friend continued, 
as we made our way along the lower road that runs by 
Tweedside. "'Have you seen oor Sir Walter?' was 
the question they used to ask a visitor. I hope it's the 
same now." 

"There's his 'romance of a house'; I'm very glad 
we've been able to come here. His trees have grown 
so well, you can't get a view of it from the other side — 
at all events when the leaves are on." 

We were standing on Tweed bank, with Abbotsford 
full in view across a shining, dancing river and a long 
stretch of green upland, when my friend said this. 

" People talk of Abbotsford as if it were one of his 
most egregious failures," said Mr. Fairfield musingly. 
" I'm not sure that's right. It's a pity he ever took to 
buying land and building, for that led to all his troubles, 
but a good deal of what he worked for came to pass. 
He killed himself trying to pay off the debts, but paid 
they were in the long run. And as for the estate, he 
died on it and his descendants have it still. Shake- 
speare didn't come off nearly so well. Time played 
havoc with his wishes ; he hadn't a descendant living 
sixty years after his death, and New Place was in the 
hands of strangers. No, sir ! it seems to me that, as 
things go in this world, the Fates have been more 



ABBOTSFORD 261 

tender to Sir Walter's schemes than they are to most 
people's." 

" Three generations in the female line," I hinted. 

"Oh, yes, the baronetcy's gone; but that doesn't 
grieve me. I'm not a feudalist. And even Scott, who 
was, didn't care much about that title. And apart from 
titles, what can it matter whether you trace back 
through men or women ? The other view seems to 
me mere feudal nonsense — mere mediaeval ignorance 
and prejudice. Lord, what rubbish poor Bozzy wrote 
about it !" 

" When Scott died," said my companion, as, on our 
way back to the road, we halted to take a last look at 
the big stone house — •" when Scott died, it was such 
warm weather, that every one of the windows was open. 
It was just such a September day as this is. I can't 
make up my mind whether I'm glad or sorry we didn't 
see the room he died in." 

We strolled on the Weirhill that afternoon, and the 
talk turned once again to Abbotsford. 

" I've been thinking of that chocolate box," said my 
companion. " One feels inclined to sniff at the other 
things they've put among Sir Walter's relics, but that 
box is in its right place. It's a relic after Scott's own 
heart." 

" That occurred to me," said I. 

"I've been thinking of that young man, too — 'the 
heir,' as our guide called him. I'm glad he's a soldier. 
I'm not one of those who look askance at the fighting 
business ; I did a bit of soldiering myself when I was a 
boy. That young man's got a goodly heritage. I'm 
not thinking of the estate ; it's the blood, I mean. 
There aren't many of us who wouldn't feel a bit uppity 
if they could claim descent from Walter Scott." 

" Scott of Arbartsfoord," he went on, and he laid the 
accent on the last syllable and imitated the pronuncia- 
tion of the country folk — " Scott of Arbartsfoord ! Yes, 
it's a goodly heritage ! I never heard of the young man 



262 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

till this morning ; but we'll drink his health after dinner, 
for his great-great-grandfather's sake." 

From that high ground above the river we watched 
the sun go down behind the western hills. 

" I don't wonder he was homesick ; ' in the evening 
a' comes hame,' " said Mr. Fairfield, as he stood with 
his hat off. " I'm glad he was by his own river when 
he died, and I'm glad he's buried by it. It must run 
quite close to him as it goes past that red cliff at Dry- 
burgh. It was hearing of Goethe's death that made 
him so eager to leave Naples. ' He at least died at 
home — let us to Abbotsford,' was what he said. Can 
there be anything in the whole world more lovely than 
thisvaUey?" 

It seemed almost unearthly-lovely that September 
evening. The western sky was still aflame, and, else- 
where, the heavens were all saffron or pale blue. There 
was not a breath of air stirring. The sun was gone ; 
but over everything there was a mellow radiance ; a 
pensive glory that clothed Eildon like a garment, and 
made the church vane gleam with the pale gold of a 
child's hair. The current splashed and bubbled as it 
passed the dam and hurried eastward. Above that line 
of foam the river was at peace. There was no sign of 
movement in the sheet of crystal that lay before us 
mirroring the firmament. But there was no deadness 
on the water ; it glimmered silvery hke the scales of a 
fish. And the glamour of Abbotsford was still upon 
us — the light that never was on sea or land transfigured 
all that evening, 

" No wonder he wished to die here ! " It was I who 
broke the silence. 

My friend made no answer. He was gazing at the 
Eildons deep in thought. He turned as I spoke, and 
looked across to the hills of Gattonside, where the trees 
were standing out clear and black against a skyline that 
was all saffron. Then his gaze moved up the valley, 
across the green pastures and the still waters to where, 



ABBOTSFORD 263 

beyond the hilltops, there was a burning and a shining 
light. 

" The Land of Beulah lies beyond the Delectable 
Mountains," he said absently. 

The words fell from him one by one ; and he drew a 
deep breath after them. 

POSTSCEIPT 

" SIR WALTER SCOTT— FOR SCOTLAND " 

The irritation of impatience . . . returned the moment he found 
himself on the road and seemed to increase hourly . . . A gentle- 
man who lately travelled from Rome to the Tyrol, informs me that 
in the book of guests, kept at one of the inns on the road, Sir Walter's 
autograph remains as follows — "Sir Walter Scott — for Scotland". 

— LOCKHABT. 

Of what avail the Rhine, the Rhone, 
Venice, or Munich, or Cologne, 
Story or legend ? What are these 
To such an one, as only sees 
A valley under Galashiels, 
And cannot hide the woe he feels, 
That aught should hinder or delay 
The whirling of his carriage wheels, 
And fain would travel night and day, 
To grind the weary miles away. 
And bear him home — to Scotland ? 

No thought of her as " stern and wild " : 

His own grey mother ; he her child 

Pining afar across the gap. 

To lay him down upon her lap, 

And all a-fever to attain 

That one sure refuge of his pain. 

— To feel beneath a Border sky 

His own sweet, caller air again ; 

To hear his river murmur by ; 

To see the heather and to die, 

"Sir Walter Scott— for Scotland ". 



CHAPTEE XXII 

WE SEE SHAKESPEARE'S WILL, AND DAWDLE ABOUT 

LINCOLN'S INN 

" Something tangible at last, sir! " 

This was Mr. Fairfield's remark, as we stood in the 
gloomy basement of Somerset House with the third and 
last sheet of Shakespeare's will before us. 

We had entered the "Will Office and paid a shilling to 
an of&cial, seated behind a barrier at the farther end ; 
and had received in exchange a slip of blue paper with 
the name " WiUiam Shakespeare " written upon it, just 
as if the document in question had been the will of 
William Brown or John Jones, who died a few weeks 
ago. We had taken this slip to a room leading out of 
a passage, that ran from the Will Office westward, and 
a smart and particularly courteous young gentleman 
had been detailed to take us to the fire-proof basement, 
where the will was kept. Within five or ten minutes 
of our arrival at Somerset House, the oak casket which 
contains the document and which bears a brass slab 
lettered '• William Shakespeare, 25th March 1616 " was 
before us. 

"Not much of the Circumlocution Office about this 
place," whispered my companion approvingly, as our 
guide undid the casket and laid the last page of the will 
on the narrow iron slab, before which we were standing. 
Only one side of the paper is written on and each page 
lies between two sheets of glass, enclosed in a light 
frame. The document bears marks of careless usage in 
bygone days and through the glass at the back many 
patches are visible. 

264 



SHAKESPEARE'S WILL 265 

" I suppose you have seen many wills executed," said 
Mr. Fairfield, after he had carefully compared the three 
signatures on the will with the facsimiles given in Mr. 
Lee's " Life ". 

"A good few." 

" Where does a testator sign first? " 

" At the foot or end. The signing of the earlier 
sheets and the initialling of any corrections are always 
done afterwards." 

" And is that the invariable custom of lawyers? " 

" Certainly ! " 

My friend seemed well pleased with this emphatic 
assurance, and for some time he bent over the three 
signatures in anxious scrutiny. 

" In what order are the other sheets signed?" he 
asked. 

" I think everybody turns back to the first page — 
that seems the most natural thing to do." 

"I've read somewhere," he observed — " perhaps in 
Donnelly's ' Great Cryptogram,' that the handwriting 
of these signatures shows that Shakespeare was a per- 
son unused to penmanship : that he could hardly write 
at all, in fact. What do you say? " 

" I say, nonsense. Not one of these signatures is in 
that sort of writing, though they differ very much. The 
one at the end is by far the best. That ' By me 
William Shakespeare ' looks to me like easy, practised 
writing. I hardly know what to make of the others." 

" Is the last signature — the first according to you — 
equally good throughout ? " 

" Looking at it more closely, I doubt if the ' Shakes- 
peare ' is so good as the ' William,' and I think it be- 
gins better than it ends." 

"I agree; but it's much better than the writing of 
the other two signatures, and it seems to me that the 
signature on page one, so far as you can make it out at 
all, is firmer than the one on page two. And that one 
— the last of the three according to you — is abbreviated ; 



266 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

the William is W.I.L.L.M., while the other Williams 
are in full." 

On om: way back to the Will Office, we dawdled to 
watch the proceedings of an attendant, who had just 
borne a fat volume to a table and was loosely turning 
over the parchment leaves, and at the same time con- 
sulting a memorandum in his hand. 

"May I be allowed to look at that?" asked Mr. 
Fairfield, darting forward as a gleam of gold and colour 
caught his eye. 

" It's one of our curiosities," said the attendant, lay- 
ing the page open before us — " the will of Sir William 
Soame, Lord Mayor of London." 

The parchment bore a beautifully executed portrait 
of a grave Tudor citizen, well advanced in years, and 
there was much heraldic blazonry about it. 

" What is the date? " asked my friend. 

" Sixteen-nineteen." 

" Ah, a contemporary ! No doubt a money er and 
great oneyer in his time. I wonder if Shakespeare ever 
saw him." 

" Let us take a stroll round here," said my companion, 
as we turned into the great quadrangle of Somerset 
House. "It's such a peaceful place." 

" He must have been very ill." 

We had been sauntering in silence for some min- 
utes, when Mr, Fairfield took his cigar out of his mouth 
and uttered this pronouncement with great conviction. 
" Halliwell-Phillipps thinks it isn't necessary to follow 
the general opinion, that the signatures betray the 
tremulous hand of illness, although parts of them may 
indicate that they were written from an inconvenient 
position. I don't agree with him as regards the tremu- 
lousness. To me, the state of affairs is as plain as a 
pikestaff." 

" Shakespeare sat up in bed to execute that will," he 
declared after another silence ; "he started right away, 
but he began to waver before he'd written his name 



SHAKESPEARE'S WILL 267 

once. And he had to lie back on the pillow after that, 
and write on something held straight up before him. 
He signed sheet one next, and by the time he got to 
sheet two he was so exhausted that he was >glad to 
abbreviate the William. That's how I read these 
signatures." 

" They do look rather like it," I admitted ; " but how 
about the resolution you made when we were at Strat- 
ford, never to theorize about Shakespeare's doings? " 

He had announced this resolution one evening, when 
after poring for a long time over guide-books, he had 
broken out into a tirade against their wholesale em- 
broidery of the bare facts of the poet's life. 

" The stuff one read and listened to there, was enough 
to irritate a saint," he answered; "but you can't see 
that will without trying to form some sort of a picture 
of the circumstances under which it was made. I can 
imagine the sort of room, or at all events, I think I 
can — a low ceilinged place with small panelling every- 
where and not what I should consider a good light ; but 
that's as far as I can go. I'm not equal to reconstruct- 
ing a scene like that, I often wonder whether most 
people do better." 

" They don't try," said I. 

" I suppose it is rather fanciful, but it's a weakness 
of mine. I often wish I could see these things as Sir 
Walter Scott or Macaulay saw them," he added wist- 

" There's no harm in wishing it," he protested, in 
answer to my smile ; " expecting it is quite another 
thing. I've no doubt Scott or Macaulay could have 
made a perfectly clear mental picture of the scene when 
that will was executed — Shakespeare himself, children, 
friends, doctor and all." 

"I think one may fairly assume that Shakespeare's 
doctor was his son-in-law. Hall," he resumed, " and it's 
a comfort to feel pretty sure that he was a good one, 
as those times went. Halliwell-Phillipps gives some 



268 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

particulars about him, and so far as we can guess at 
the nature of the complaint, it wasn't one for heroic 
remedies. It was an awful thing to be in the doctor's 
hands in those days. Have you ever read about their 
treatment ? " 

" I think Macaulay says they tortured Charles II 
like a red Indian at the stake, and one has a general im- 
pression that, until modern times, all doctors' stuff was 
loathsome and beastly. When the professor of healing 
was called in the patient must have felt like a state 
prisoner awaiting his torturer." 

" And I doubt if the patients had any great faith in 
either the doctors or the remedies," said my friend 
laughing ; " and that must have made the position 
very grievous. I was dipping into Herrick the other 
evening, and in the ' Noble Numbers ' I came upon his 
' Letanie to the Holy Spirit '. He speaks of the art- 
less doctor — the primary meaning of artless was unskil- 
ful, then — and he goes on thus : — 

When his potion and his pill, 
Has, or none, or little skill. 
Meet for nothing but to kill ; 

Sweet spirit, comfort me ! 

And they eked out their artlessness by consulting the 
stars. A physician without astrology was thought a 
poor creature — he was likened to a ' pudden without 
fat '. We've much to be thankful for nowadays." 
And so saying, Mr. Fairfield fell into a brown study. 

" I must be getting back to Gray's Inn," said I at 
length. 

''I'll walk with you, if I may." 

When we reached the Law Courts, I turned in at 
the western gate, and passed through to Carey Street. 
Here I stopped for a moment to greet an old friend, 
who was sunning himself upon the parapet : a battered 
and very ancient grimalkin, who bore the name of 
Tom. A good many stray cats find a home in and 



LINCOLN'S INN 269 

about the Law Courts. The policemen and orderHes 
make pets of them and see to their rations. 

" He looks a bit fresher for the Vacation — like most 
who come here ; don't he?" said one of the men on 
duty. 

" Ah ! " responded Mr. Fairfield, taking the joke, 
" overtaxed his brain before the holidays, I suppose." 

After this exchange of pleasantries, I made for the 
passage which leads into Lincoln's Inn, hard by Searle 
Street. I wondered whether this was new ground to 
my friend. 

" I say ! " was his ejaculation when we came upon 
the staircase of the house through which the passage 
runs ; and I felt an arresting hand on my shoulder. 

" This is very imposing ; more so than the staircase 
at Number 5 in your square. And what a lot of names 
are painted up yonder — the place must be a perfect 
warren. Where on earth are we ? " 

With this question on his lips, Mr. Fairfield walked 
to the doorway. It did not take him many seconds to 
find his bearings. 

" Number 7 New Square, Lincoln's Inn," he 
announced with a smile, as we strolled on northward. 

" That's an interesting house to a lawyer," said I, 
pointing to Number 11. 

" Sixteen-ninety-one, according to the tablet," he 
muttered. " This square is older than I thought. And 
not much changed, I guess," he went on, after he had 
retraced his steps for a few paces, in order to get a 
better view of the east side ; " though the red tiles are 
nearly all gone. Why is Number 11 so interesting? " 

" Three Lord Chancellors have come out of it to my 
knowledge, and there may have been others, for all I 
know." 

"I thought you lawyers didn't take any interest in 
these things ; Thackeray says so, somewhere in ' Pen- 
dennis '," 

"I remember the passage," said I; "and oddly 



^70 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

enough, this house is one of the very places he mentions. 
Lord Chancellor Eldon was here for nine years — but I 
can hardly expect you to take any interest in him," 

" Perhaps I don't know so much about him as you 
do," suggested my friend politely. 

" That is possible," I answered with a smile of con- 
scious superiority; "but I should like to know what 
your impression of him is." 

Mr. Fairfield stared into the doorway of Number 11, 
5,nd seemed to gather his mind together before commit- 
ting himself. 

" He was given to port wine, also to doubting; and 
Thackeray hints that he kept a good supply of crocodile 
tears on hand. That's the man, sir ; and, by-the-by, it 
was he who decided that Shelley wasn't fit to have the 
custody of his own children. I don't say he was wrong 
there." 

" Hum ! " I said ; "I needn't advise you to read 
Twiss, or even Campbell, after that epitome." 

" You are on your own — ahem ! — ground here," he 
answered meekly. " Who were the other two Lord 
Chancellors? " 

"Lord Cranworth and Lord Selborne. Selborne 
was here for more than a quarter of a century. I think 
it was his home before he married. I was in one of 
those top rooms on the north side, a little time ago, 
and the occupant told me it used to be Selborne's 
bedroom." 

" I've read something about him," said Mr. Fairfield 
meditatively ; "he was an ecclesiastical character. 
When he built his new home he called in a bishop to 
consecrate it. That's the sort of thing to take an ordin- 
ary man's breath away. It's positively mediaeval. But 
he was one of your great Chancellors, wasn't he ? " 

" I think so : one of the greatest in fact. Speaking 
off-hand, I can only think of four others — Somers, Hard- 
wicke, Eldon and Cairns." 

" I don't suppose there's an old house in this Inn 



LINCOLN'S INN 271 

that hasn't harboured at least one eminent lawyer," I 
went on, " but I think this house holds the record. 
Lord Langdale's chambers were here. He was Master 
of the B.olls, but he could have been Chancellor if he'd 
liked. And Leach was here, too. He was Master of 
the Rolls under Eldon " 

" It's odd that he should have come out of the same 
house," interrupted Mr. Fairfield. 

" Why? " I asked, not a little surprised. 

" They were such a contrast in all respects. Do you 
remember the Prince Regent's joke ? He said that as 
his Chancellor was called Old Bags, he must call his 
Master of the EoUs, Eeticule. Leach had a finicking 
manner, and his seal, or whatever it was, was carried in 
a purse like Eldon's, but much smaller." 

" You pretended you knew nothing about Eldon." 

" The temptation was too strong forme," he pleaded. 
*' ' Let us hear what our cousin from across the seas 
knows of the great Lord Eldon,' was the way you put 
it." 

" And how did our cousin pick up his knowledge? " 

" When I was a boy, Campbell's ' Lives ' was a stand- 
ard work on our side of the Atlantic. It was among 
our books at home, and I read it, or a good bit of it, 
over and over again. It was my introduction to Eng- 
lish history, apart from mere school-books. Capital read- 
ing it is too, and not a bit more inaccurate, I'll be 
bound, than many of our modern oracles. When I 
came on the old man's portrait in your National Portrait 
Gallery, it was like meeting an old friend." 

" The Inn ought to publish a list of the distinguished 
tenants of each of its old houses," said I. " By turning 
over a few books at the Law Society's library, I was 
able to credit this house with three Chancellors and two 
Masters of the Eolls, and I've known two men leave it 
for the Bench — Ford North in 1881 and Swinfen Eady 
only a year or two ago." 

" Two hundred years," said my friend musingly ; 



272 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

" I must look through ' Campbell ' again when I get 
home." 

" You'll find that he mentions Number 10, that house 
to the left. Lord Somers' State Papers perished there 
when Charles Yorke's chambers were burnt out in 
1752. You remember Charles Yorke, the Chancellor 
who did not live to take his seat ? " 

Mr. Fairfield was scanning through his pince-nez 
the canopied statue of Queen Victoria, which adorns 
the south peak of the roof of Lincoln's Inn Hall. 

"Eemember Charles Yorke?" he said laughing. 
" Oh, yes, I've some reason to remember him. But for 
your grandfather, young lady, and his Charles Yorkes," 
he went on, with a wave of his hand towards the statue, 
" I might have been born a British subject." 

" I really must be going back to business," said I ; 
for his flourish had drawn my attention to the hall 
clock, and I was startled to see how late it was ; " you 
vowed and declared you wouldn't keep me out more 
than an hour. This is what always happens when I 
give way." 

" I apologize for detaining you," he answered with 
immovable countenance. "It's a pity I turned over 
those books at the Law Society's Ubrary. Out of the 
abundance of the heart the mouth speaketh." 

I moved on without attempting a repartee, but no 
sooner had we reached the two old pumps, which stand 
some forty paces eastward of Number 11, than he 
pleaded for another halt. 

" Two or three minutes can't make any difference," 
he urged, " and this is one of the very prettiest bits in 
all London. I've never seen it from this aspect." 

I stopped not unwillingly ; for Lincoln's Inn has 
been a part of my life for five-and-twenty years, and I 
love that prospect. It is so airy and so spacious. 

" It's simply wonderful ! " muttered my companion 
under his breath, as we stood between the two pumps 
and took a leisurely survey of all about us. 



LINCOLN'S INN 273 

Never to my eyes had the surroundings of the hall 
and library looked more fresh and leafy. The western 
tower rose against a screen of foliage, with not a house 
in sight. Flanking the other tower, were the Inn's 
own plane trees and long stretches of turf and flower- 
beds. Stone Buildings peeped out, like a temple in a 
grove ; and here, there, and everywhere, from the 
library to the chapel and the Old Hall beside it, there 
was more fresh green. Even New Square was pictur- 
esque. The trees and bushes in its garden broke up 
all that was formal in the weathered brickwork, and 
a hot sun, just past meridian, was beating down upon 
the turf and making the flower-beds glorious. 

Mr. Fairfield lit another cigar, and leaning his arms 
on the railing, gave himself up to an inspection of the 
three sides of the square. 

"Are there many residents here?" he asked, at 
length. 

" Next to none, I believe. Things used to be differ- 
ent. Men lived at their chambers until they married ; 
sometimes afterwards, I think. Charles Yorke was 
Hving at Number 10 when he was burnt out. We 
are told he escaped in very scanty attire. Arthur 
Murphy, Johnson's friend, lived for many years at 
Number 1." 

" I remember him ; Johnson ' very much loved him '. 
I must have a look at that house. I'll be bound old 
Sam used to puff up the stairs. Did you hunt up the 
whole square in those books ? " 

" I was only hunting up Number 11 ; but incidentally 
I came across Wedderburn, Lord Chancellor Lough- 
borough. His chambers were here when he was 
Attorney-General. Do you remember him in Camp- 
beU's ' Lives ' ? " 

"More or less! I'm rather interested in him; he 
was such a good friend to my country. Do you re- 
member that saying of Junius — ' as for Mr, Wedder- 
burn, there is something about him which even treachery 
18 



274 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

cannot trust ' ? He meant treachery with a big T, you 
know. In the eighteenth century they were fond of 
the 'family of dismal personifications,' which they 
marked with capital letters : Leslie Stephen says so. 
That ' even ' always makes me laugh. Why on earth 
should Treachery be more trustful than his brothers and 
sisters? Did you come across any more celebrities? " 

" Only three or four — Law, Lord Chief Justice Ellen- 
borough, Sugden, Lord Chancellor St. Leonards — he 
was at Number 10 — Sir Samuel Eomilly and Eichard 
Preston, the leviathan of conveyancers. I myself re- 
member Lord Justice Chitty at Number 3. That was 
where Serle's coffee-house used to be. It was some- 
times called Will's. The bloods of this Inn used to 
breakfast there in their night-gowns " 

" In their night-gowns ! " 

" A night-gown was the same as a morning-gown — we 
call the thing a dressing-gown. It was tied round the 
waist by a bright coloured sash and a cap went with it 
instead of a wig. I've read somewhere, that this ele- 
gant undress was to be seen, by the gateway, over 
yonder, after George the Third came to the throne. 
But I'm forgetting something about this square, more 
interesting to you than all the other associations put 
together — Charles Dickens was a clerk at Number 8." 

" I remember — I remember ! The man's name was 
Molloy, but I didn't know the number. That was be- 
fore Dickens went to Ellis and Blackmore in your Inn." 

" No ; it was after that Molloy came here. I looked 
the point up for your special benefit. I've got a memo- 
randum about it at Gray's Inn. I can't remember the 
dates just now, but I know I was satisfied that Dickens 
was MoUoy's clerk at Number 8, and that he went there 
after he left Ellis and Blackmore." 

"What's that bell?" demanded Mr. Fairfield, turn- 
ing sharply round. He had only just become conscious 
of the measured strokes, that were sounding from the 
chapel. 



LINCOLN'S INN 275 

" It's tolling for a member; perhaps a bencher." 

" A passing-bell ! " he ejaculated. " Shakespeare 
often refers to that. Perhaps an old bell too ! " 

" Sixteen-fifteen," said I carelessly, but keeping an 
eye on his face. 

He rose to the bait exactly as I had anticipated, 
" Sixteen-fifteen — ' the surly, sullen bell ' ! Shakespeare 
may have heard it : — 

No longer mourn for me when I am dead 
Than you shall hear the surly, sullen bell 
Giv6 warnmg to the world that I am fled 
From this vile world, with vilest worms to dwell. 

It's strange to think of that old bell tolling here since 
sixteen-fifteen. It must have rung out Macaulay. He 
was a bencher of Lincoln's Inn." 

" Your old friend Campbell, too. He must have been 
rung out when he became Lord Chief Justice ; and I 
daresay he was tolled for as Chancellor when he died." 

" I must certainly re-read Campbell, and keep my eye 
on the Lincoln's Inn men," said Mr. Fairfield, as with 
folded arms he resumed his lounge against the railings, 
and turned his attention to the garden. " These trees 
don't look very ancient." 

" Oh, no ! Sixty years ago this was only an open 
space — gravelled, I suppose. At one time there was a 
fountain and sundial in the middle " 

" Ah ! Charles Lamb knew that fountain when he 
was a child," interrupted my companion, who is a de- 
vout lover of Elia ; "he mentions it in his essay on 
the old benchers of the Inner Temple. And, by jove, 
the basin's there still ! Full of water, too ! " 

" This garden was planted after the new hall and 
library were built ; a sort of compensation, I think, for 
the havoc which they had wrought on the Inn gardens." 

" They must have taken off a tidy slice." As my 
friend said this, he turned round and eyed the mass of 
brickwork with no great favour. 



276 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

"It wasn't only the site of those buildings; all this 
roadway right up to the archway leading into the Fields, 
was filched from the gardens. The railings used to 
come up to Number 11." 

" But when the gardens went right up to Number 11, 
had this square no outlet on the west ? " 

" There used to be a tunnel into Serle Street be- 
tween Number 9 and Number 10. That was blocked 
up about sixty years ago, and for the life of me, I can't 
find a trace of where it ran ; but in the Stow of 1720, 
there's a view of the square, which shows it. I've come 
to the conclusion that the whole of Number 10 has been 
rebuilt. The entrance there was called the Postern 
Gate ; the entrance into Carey Street, between Number 
3 and Number 4, was called the Great Gate, or the 
Back Gate. The passage we came in by is quite 
modern ; I remember it being made. Before this square 
was built the gardens came right down to where Num- 
ber 10 now stands." 

" I haven't given your Inns of Court half the atten- 
tion they deserve. They're the best things left in 
London after the Abbey and St. Saviour's and the 
Tower. But one's time is so short." Mr. Eairfield 
sighed as he uttered this. 

" You see those two vine-clad houses," said I, point- 
ing to Numbers 12 and 13, which were just on our left. 

" They're older than the others." 

" Some 150 years older." 

Mr. Fairfield was much impressed. " Why, that 
carries us back to Henry the Eighth." 

" They're old enough to have housed Dr. Donne," he 
broke out, a minute or two later. " Donne was a bar- 
rister before King James made a clergyman of him. I 
was dipping into Walton's ' Lives ' only a day or two 
ago. Do you know them? Aren't they delightful? " 

" That they certainly are, but it's hard to believe that 
men were as good as Walton thought them. It doesn't 
seem consistent with human nature." 







< IS 



O ^ 

S s 



LINCOLN'S INN 277 

'' I suppose yon feel a doubt about the morals of 
the judicious Hooker," said my friend, laughing. 

" It's a wicked world," I murmured. 

" Not so wicked, though, as you lawyers believe," re- 
torted Mr. Fairfield. 

" Do you remember Donne's runaway marriage ? " he 
resumed, " Christopher Brooke — Walton calls him his 
chamber-fellow in Lincoln's Inn — gave the bride away. 
He, and Donne, and Brooke's brother, who married the 
couple, were all sent to prison for it. Donne and 
Christopher were friends all their lives. One likes to 
think that, perhaps, the chamber which they shared 
was in one of those houses. I must make a note to 
look into Walton again. I've an impression that Brooke 
was a poet as well as a lawyer." 

" I'll be bound you've studied that country pretty 
well," said I, pointing to where the plane tree of the 
Kitchen-garden showed between the old houses and 
Number 1 New Square. 

Mr. Fairfield understood me. " The ' Bleak House ' 
country ! Oh yes, I went over that before the rebuild- 
ings there, and I saw the churchyard where they buried 
Nemo, off Drury Lane, before it was turned into a re- 
creation ground. Now a street goes over it." 

" How marvellously the book opens! " he exclaimed, 
pointing to the Old Hall. " How you seem to be stew- 
ing in the fog, by the time you get to the Lord High 
Chancellor, sitting there in his High Court of Chancery ! 
Thank goodness, that won't be pulled down, though 
it's been shamefully ill-used ! Have you ever been 
inside?" 

" Many a time. When I was young the Court of 
Appeal sat there. It used to be great fun to watch 
Jessel holding Lord Esher down." 

" I don't know much about the place, but I know it 
goes back to Henry the Seventh's reign. Four hundred 
years — just think of it ! " 

" It's likely enough that Shakespeare was inside it at 



278 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

some time or other," said I. *' And it's more than likely 
that Ben Jonson was." 

" I suppose this Inn had its revels just the same as 
Gray's Inn? " 

" Not a doubt of it. Charles the Second and the Duke 
of York attended one in that very Hall, soon after the 
Restoration. Evelyn was there — he came up to town on 
purpose — and what is very curious, Pepys saw the King's 
guard on the way here. He was just outside Temple 
Bar." 

" And Charles and James were in that Hall again a 
few years later," I continued ; " and that time Mon- 
mouth and Prince Kupert were with them." 

" It's a far cry from those Stuarts to Charles Dickens," 
said Mr. Fairfield. " I never thought of the place ex- 
cept in connexion with his Jarndyce and Jarndyce. 

" It's one of the most interesting buildings in London 
to a lawyer," I asserted with some enthusiasm. "I'm 
not deeply read in legal annals, but I've come across it 
again and again." 

"It's a pity you're so pressed for time," hinted my 
companion as I paused to get my memory into focus. 

" I can't recollect much on the spur of the moment," 
I said, laughing, " but I know it was in that Hall Lord 
Mansfield took leave of the Bar when he was made 
Lord Chief Justice, and I know Lord Chancellor 
Erskine took his leave there, when George the Third got 
rid of All the Talents. And it was there Eldon, as a young 
man, argued Ackroyd and Smithson before Lord Chan- 
cellor Thurlow. Your benefactor Wedderburn led on 
the other side. And I've another shot in the locker. 
It was there Sheridan harangued Eldon for hours in 
the Drury Lane case." 

" I've never been inside," said Mr. Fairfield wistfully. 

" There's an oak screen that was put up in Queen 
Elizabeth's time, and some coats of arms painted on 
panels — Prince Bupert's for one. It's the very place 
for you, I must be off and take hold of my business. 



LINCOLN'S INN 279 

but you're a gentleman of leisure ; why not present 
yourself to the steward, and ask him to lend you the 
key ? And, by-the-by, you might ask him whereabouts 
in Number 8, Molloy's office was." 

" 'With thee conversing I forget all time,' " quoted 
my friend with polite rapture ; and thereupon I broke 
loose and left him to his own devices. 



POSTSCEIPT 
THE GHOSTS OF LINCOLN'S INN 

Candlemas-night ! and the moonbeams fall 

Cold and faint on the old white Hall. 

Square and chapel and all about^ 

Shuttered and barred from the world without ; 

Only a rumble, now and again 

Heard through the portal of Chancery Lane : 

" Lovell's gatehouse '' of centuries four — 

Good red brick, with its old oak door 

Fashioned and hung, as the record saith^ 

Anno sexto, Elizabeth. 

Twelve of the clock 1 and the New Hall's chime 

Rings in the Old Hall's festival time. 

E'en as the last stroke dies in air 

Lutes and fiddles are merry there ; 

Painted windows ot earlier days, 

Flaunt their heraldries, all ablaze. 

Candlemas Bevel ! the screens affirm ; 

Great Grand-night, of Hilary Term ! 

Marred no longer by stucco or slate, 

The Old Hall shows like the old brick gate ; 

Free to-night to welcome its dead^ 

In Tudor habit^ mulberry-red. 

Shadows trooping to meet their kin : 
Old-time members of Lincoln's Inn ; 
Legal phantoms, an endless train. 
Flocking to dance in their hall again. 
Many a serjeant brave in fui'. 
Many a wizen conveyancer. 
Chancellors ranging from Selbome to More, 
Masters in Chancery, many a score. 
Countless judges in ermine pile, 
Hordes and hordes of the rank and file. 



280 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

Light-heeled phantoms that come at call, 
Mad to dance in their ancient hall. 
(Some who feasted and drank their wine"| 
Under its roof-tree fresh and fine — V 

Fourteen hundred and eighty-nijie !) J 
Roistering student, or learned wight 
All are bent on the dance to-night ; 
Even the crop-eared ghost of Prynne 
Speeds to the revel at Lincoln's 'Inn. 

Music, thin as a mouse's cry, 
Pours from the gallery up on high ; 
All below is a seething whirl ; 
Gown and tippet and formal curl : 
Thick as gnats in a twilight air. 
Revellers many ; but room to spare. 
Down the middle on heel and toe ; 
Up the sides — and away they go I 
Apt to vanish, as shadows may. 
Over the hiUs and far away, 
Out at pleasure through wall or pane ; 
Rounding the precincts and back again ! 

Each can figure it, great or small ; 
Christopher Hatton can dance for all. 
(Not of right may he skim the floor ; 
Only by grace, as a chancellor. 
Old-time custom and law invite 
All the judges on Candlemas-night.) 
Inwards ; outwards ; never a stop ; 
Christopher spins like a humming top : 
Never a halt or a breathing space ! 
Ofi" he canaries to Ely Place ; 
Sports awhile in his home of yore ; 
Frohcs back for a spring with More. 

All to-night of the same degree ; 
None make way for a splendid three — 
Diamond buckle on red-heeled shoe, 
George and ribbon of garter blue, 
'Broidered velvet and full peruke. 
Fit for a king or a royal duke ; 
Members all, as the gown proclaims ; 
Rupert is dancing with Charles and James. 

Dizzy and Gladstone meet and frown ; 
Each swings by in his student's gown. 
Williams, Johnny and Williams, Josh 
Flee from a lecture by Mackintosh. 



LINCOLN'S INN 281 

Snug in a comer, vis-db-vis, 
Brougham and Sugden caper free ; 
Gay little chanson, Lyndhurst hums : 
All look shirty when Campbell comes ; 
Campbell bursting to make it clear. 
He alone is the dancer here. 

Denham and Wither foot it now ; 

Fiddlers rise in their seats and bow ; 

Changing the tune of the flying feet 

To an old-world madrigal piercing sweet : 

Shall I, wasting in despaire, 

Dye, because a woman's fair ? 

Wither blushes ; for all the train 

Lift their voices and swell the strain, 

Thanks to the prompting, one affords — 

Bencher Macaulay has the words. 

Shades in the moonlight carry it on ; 

Christopher Brooke and Dr. Donne, 

Frisking round ; as they dip and rise 

Hand in hand are the old allies. 

On, and on, to the graveyard stones 

Under the arches of Inigo Jones ; 

Past the gatehouse, and round the Square ; 

Back to the Hall and the dancers there. 

Members and judges in endless tale, 

Dashed with a sprinkle from out the pale : 

Worthy biU-men, who '^^ charged" and "prayed," 

Others who "answered," undismayed; 

Blooded free in the Bar's behoof 

Under the Old Hall's timbered roof. 

Such be they, whom the shades requite — 

Free of the revel on Candlemas-night. 

Old Tom Jarndyce, felo de se, 

Back again where he used to be ; 

Farmer Gridley, the Shropshire man ; 

Bright-eyed, bottle-nosed Sheridan : 

Ackroyd whistles to Smithson's reel ; 

Sibley and Perry are toe and heel. 

Students jostle with ermined peers. 
Paying their court to the buffeteers. 
Each may drink as his wiU be fain ; 
" Silver-tongued Murray " sips champagne ; 
Taps his snuff box and cites a trope, 
Just as it fell from the mouth of Pope. 
Garrick, beaming at Camden's side. 
Lifts a glass of the amber tide ; 



282 RAMBLES WITH AN AMEKICAN 

Pledges Nash ^ ere he tips it down — 

'^ Warwickshire Will and Stratford town ! " 

Rubicund ancients mellow and gay, 

Crack the jokes of a bygone day ; 

All of a-chuckle at Erskine's wit ; 

Cowed a little by Treasurer Pitt. 

Bencher Canning, in worshipful form, 

Drinks — " To the pilot that weathered the storm ". 

Eldon back iu his ancient court. 

Spins his yarn as he swigs his port ; 

Hints a longing for "liver and crow " ; 

Leach grimaces and sips noyau. 

Hardwicke questions without avail, 

Broomstick legends of Matthew Hale. 

Thurlow, fuddled and grown morose, 
Knits his terrible eyebrows close ; 
Snaps at Kenyon — who snaps in turn — 
Rages and curses at Wedderburn. 
Sandy bows as he plants a sting ; 
Saunters off under Murphy's wing. 
Spectres pause as the taunts fly free : 
All of them laugh, but a group of three — 
Selborne and Cairns and Hatherley. 

Music ceases and flambeaux wane ; 
Spectres vanish through wall and pane : 
Hither and thither, they wheel and wend^ 
Dotting the precincts from end to end ; 
All agog for the closing sport — 
Old-time round of the Inns of Court. 
Flitting outwards to form and sing, 
Hand in hand in a triple ring — 
Vast encompassing circles three 
Round the band where the fire should be. 

Lutes and fiddles are bending low ; ~j 
Master-fiddler dips his bow ; j- 

Squeal the fiddles ; and off they go ! J 
Innermost^ outermost, every sprite 
Tossing and turning, left to right ; 
Those of the middlemost, madly gay. 
Turning and tossing the other way. 
— Romping the measure with leap and bound. 
Quicker and quicker they fly around ; 
Shrilling forth, as a Bedlam choir — 
Here we dance round our seacoal fire ! 

1 Thomas Nash, who married Shakespeare's granddaughter, Eliza- 
beth Hall, and died at New Place. 



LINCOLN'S INN 283 

Thrice they circle and thrice they shrill — 
Scatter ! — vanish ! And all is still ! 
Only a cock crow, faintly borne, 
Hails a streak of the coming morn. 

Vapours rising clammy and cold, 

Wrap the Inn in an icy fold ; 

Spectral trees on gravel and lawn. 

Drip, drip, drip to a murky dawn. 

But daylight flares over Chancery Lane, 

And the wind smites down upon louvre and vane. 

Gust upon gust, with a lashing of rain. 

Candlemas- morrow comes in with a squall, 
To a work-a-day world and an old white hall. 

Note. — All the shades mentioned above, with the exception of 
the old litigants and the judges following, namely — Lord Chan- 
cellor Hatton, Mr. Justice "Johnny" Williams, Lord Chancellor 
Camden, Lord Chancellor Eldon, Sir John Leach, Master of the 
Rolls, Lord Chancellor Thurlow, Lord Chief Justice Kenyon, 
and Wedderburn, Lord Chancellor Loughborough, were members 
of Lincoln's Inn. 



CHAPTEE XXIII 

MR. FAIRFIELD TURNS RECORD-HUNTER, AND STUDIES 
"SWINBURNE ON WILLS " 

It was a little after five o'clock in the afternoon of the 
day following our visit to Somerset House, that upon 
answering a modest knock at my office door, I found 
Mr. Fairfield standing on the threshold. He knew that 
he was reasonably certain to find me alone and disen- 
gaged at that hour during the Long Vacation. 

" Well ! " I said, as I proceeded to brew a cup of tea, 
as is my hospitable custom on such occasions, " did you 
get inside the Old Hall yesterday ? " 

" As a matter of fact, I did. There was some clean- 
ing going on, and the foreman let me in. But I haven't 
come to talk about that. I've had a disappointment." 

My visitor gave his right eye a rub with his forefinger 
as he said this, and I noticed that the orb bore a some- 
what angry appearance. 

" I was thinking about Shakespeare's will last night," 
he resumed, " and I took up Herrick to look at that 
* Letanie '. I happened to cast my eye over the bio- 
graphical introduction, and lo, and behold ! I came on 
a statement that Sir Stephen Soame was the husband 
of Herrick's maternal aunt. Wasn't it an odd coinci- 
dence? " 

"Why?" I asked. 

" He was that old chap — the Lord Mayor — whose 
will we saw." 

" It certainly was odd," I admitted. 

" When I turned to the index and found there were 

284 



RECORD-HUNTING 285 

a lot of poems addressed to members of the Soame 
family, I got quite excited," continued Mr. Fairfield, 
now busy with scraps of memoranda. 

" I'll be bound you did." 

" There was one to his honoured kinsman Sir William 
Soame, another to the most fair and lovely Mistress 
Anne Soame, another to his kinsman Sir Thomas Soame, 
and another to his worthy kinsman Mr. Stephen Soame. 
I galloped off to the Museum the first thing this morn- 
ing, and looked up all I could find about Herrick and 
his family. I found little enough about the Herricks, 
and nothing at all about the Soames. Of course, I 
didn't give much time to it. But I did find out that 
Herrick had three brothers, Thomas, Nicholas and 
William, and that Nicholas was a Levant merchant. 
As a matter of fact, there's a poem in the ' Hesperides ' 
addressed to him, and it's evident that he had travelled 
in the Holy Land." 

" I don't think you've much of a disappointment to 
complain of. There must be some record of the Lord 
Mayor. Why not try the Guildhall library ? The offi- 
cials there don't mind what trouble they take. They'll 
soon put you on his track." 

" Oh, but that isn't all. I thought I'd go and have 
a look at the will itself, and see if I could make anything 
out of that. I got it at last, but I'm afraid I gave a lot 
of trouble." 

" Could you read it — it's in court hand ; isn't it ? " 

Mr. JP airfield gave his right eye another rub. " It 
was a devil of a business," he said. " At first I could 
make nothing of it, but by sticking to it like a limpet, 
I found I could guess at some of the short words ; and 
working on by degrees, I managed to get some notion 
of the hang of the thing. My right eye pretty well 
struck work just before I finished, and I was dead-tired, 
for I had to stand up all the time." My friend stretched 
out his long legs and straightened his back as he said 
this. 



286 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

" What I hoped for was to find some mention of 
Herrick," he resumed. " That was where the disap- 
pointment came in." 

" Did you find nothing at all? " 

Mr. Fairfield's eyes were half-shut as he watched me 
dust the teacups. " I found a little," he said. 

" There's no reason why you shouldn't smoke," I re- 
marked. I was beginning to feel a little interested in 
his amateur record-hunting, though I thought it unlikely 
that he had unearthed anything new. 

" I found," he began, as soon as his cigar was alight, 
and he had got his notes in order; "I found that the 
will mentioned four sons — my son Sir William Soame, 
Knight, my son Stephen Soame, Thomas Soame, my 
third son, and my son John Soame. Now that was 
something, for the first three are the Sir William, Sir 
Thomas and Mr. Stephen of the ' Hesperides'. They 
were Herrick's cousins." 

"Very satisfactory indeed," I said encouragingly. 

" Those four sons got a lot of lands. I couldn't make 
out more than that, and I didn't try to. But later on, 
I came to some small gifts. These were very interest- 
ing ; for among them was to Eichard Herrick, a cloak, 
to Mr. Baldwin, a cloak, and to Nicholas Herrick a ring. 
Now, that Nicholas was Herrick's brother, and I guess 
Baldwin was some relation of the poet's maid Prudence 
Baldwin. She is named in several little verses in the 
* Hesperides'. One is on her sickness and another is 
her epitaph : — 

In this little urn is laid 
Prudence Baldwin (once my maid) 
From whose happy spark here let 
Spring the purple violet. 

Herrick must have missed her sorely ; his ' kind Prew, ' 
as he calls her somewhere, was one of the props of his 
old age." 

"You don't know who the Richard was ? " 



RECORD-HUNTING 287 

Mr. Fairfield shook his head. " I've been wonder- 
ing whether I made a mistake about him. I don't 
think the name could have been Nicholas, but I was 
very muddled by the time I got so far as that. There 
was a codicil farther on ; I think I must have left that 
for another day, but luckily one of the attendants came 
up to see what I was puzzling over for such a long 
time, and he gave me a little assistance. I've got a 
pretty full note of that codicil. You can read it for 
yourself." 

I took the pencil memorandum which my friend 
handed me. It read as follows : — 

Upon Saturday ye twoe and twentieth of May one thousand six 
hundred and nineteen about twelve of the clock in the night of the 
same day Sir Stephen Soame Knight and Alderman of London lying 
sicke upon his death bed at Thurlowe and being in very perfect 
memory uttered these or the like words following namely. [He 
asked " Is Brooke here ? " and being informed that he was, he ex- 
pressed a certain wish with regard to his will.] And presentlie 
after that he said to Sir William Soame, Thomas Soame, John Soame 
his sons standing by him [certain words]. And moreover he sayd 
let Nic Herrick have twoe hundred pounds for seaven years 
gratis. [Witnessed by the 3 sons and Th. Brooke.] 

"Nicholas Herrick again!" I remarked. "I dare- 
say the old man wanted to give him a helping hand in 
that Levant business. The whole thing's very quaint." 

" Isn't it ? And doesn't it bring up before one that 
scene 300 years ago. A loan of <£200, gratis for seven 
years, was a biggish thing in those days. I hope Nicholas 
got it. Was such a writing of any effect ? It's merely 
a statement of what a man said on his deathbed." 

" It would be of no effect now ; I think it was what was 
called a nuncupative disposition," I answered learnedly. 

" But wasn't it of any effect then? " 

I had to confess that I did not know ; but feeling 
pretty sure that "Williams on Eeal Property" would 
tell me, I promised to look into the point when I had 
half an hour to spare. 

" I've a great mind to write to the boss of your Will 



288 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

Office," said Mr. Fairj&eld before taking his departure, 
" and ask him to have that portrait of the Lord Mayor 
taken out of the book and framed. It's a bit damaged 
already, and every one who turns over the leaves makes 
it worse." 

"By all means," I said. "Whatever happens you 
will be treated courteously ; Sir Francis Jeune knows 
something about old records." 

My faith in Joshua Williams proved to be well founded. 
Within five minutes of my opening his " Eeal Pro- 
perty," that pelucid writer had made plain to me the 
general bearing of the law as to wills in the reign of 
James I. After this, I amused myself for half an hour 
by turning over the quaint pages of an older writer, 
whose book forms part of my slender store of legal 
curiosities ; and thus fortified I was able to greet Mr. 
Fairfield with a brave show of learning when he next 
presented himself in Gray's Inn. 

" Nicholas Herrick got his loan all right," said I, 
taking down the ancient authority ; " this is how the 
law stood in 1619 : — 

"Nuncupative Testament is when the testator without any writ- 
ing doeth declare his will before a sufficient number of witnesses. 
. . . And a nuncupative testament is as of great force and efficacie 
(except for his lands tenements and hereditaments) as a written 
testament. This kind of testament is commonly made when the 
testator is now very sick, weak and past all hope of recoverie. 

As a matter of fact, anything but land could be willed 
in those days without writing." 

"What's the date of that book?" asked Mr. Fair- 
field, who was peering over my shoulder. 
" Fifteen hundred and ninety." 
My friend whistled. " What's its name? " 
" That's rather a serious question," I answered, 
turning to the title-page; "for the author has taken 
about twenty lines of print to set it out. I will ven- 
ture on an alDstract — ' A Brief Treatise of Testaments 
and last Willes . . . compiled ... by the Industrie 



" SWINBURNE ON WILLS " 289 

of Henrie Swinburn, Bachelar of the Civill Law . . . 
London. Printed by John Windet 1590.' " 

" Were things the same when Shakespeare made his 
will, as when that book was written? " 

" Exactly. There was no change in the law be- 
tween the latter end of Henry the Eighth's reign and 
the middle part of Charles the Second's." 

" I'm afraid I've put you to a great deal of trouble — by- 
the-by, my right eye is no longer inflamed." Mr. Fair- 
field said this with a smile, and he stretched out his 
hand for the volume. 

" Do you suppose Shakespeare's solicitor knew this 
book in sixteen hundred and sixteen?" he asked, after 
he had studied the title and read aloud the biblical text 
which adorns it. 

" I haven't the faintest conception of what a solicitor's 
equipment was in sixteen hundred and sixteen. I dare- 
say his books were nearly all manuscript, but it seems 
to me barely possible that he hadn't some knowledge 
of Swinburne. It had been published five-and-twenty 
years, and it must have been very well known in the 
profession. It's a wonderful book for simplicity and 
clearness, considering all things, and the amount of 
ground it covers is extraordinary. I think it must have 
been the leading authority on wills." 

" If I were to try and read it, could I make head or 
tail of it? " demanded Mr. Fairfield. 

" I don't think you'd find a line in it you couldn't 
understand. Take it and try ! I don't warrant it in- 
teresting — only comprehensible." 

" I'm really very much obliged to you for trusting me 
with it. The truth is, I can't resist the temptation of 
looking through the book that was the leading authority 
when Shakespeare's will was made." 

" I've been following up what you said about Sheridan 

the other morning," remarked Mr. Fairfield, after we 

had settled down to the discussion of our tea and biscuits. 

" I thought I was pretty well up in Sheridan's life, 

19 



290 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

but it was news to me that he had harangued Lord 
Eldon." 

" I came across a statement somewhere that Lincoln's 
Inn Hall was crowded to hear Sheridan address the 
Chancellor, like Drury Lane when Mrs. Siddons played 
Lady Macbeth. That was my only authority. I hope 
it was trustworthy." 

" Oh, yes ! it was right enough. I had a lot of 
trouble to get at the facts, but I managed it at last. 
I've come to the conclusion that Sheridan's biographers 
have rather shirked that episode in his career. I don't 
much blame them; for certainly it was a mixed-up 
business, but they might have given the date of the year 
right." 

" What was it all about ? " 

"I'm not sure that I fully understand it, but the sum 
and substance of it was this. An attempt was made to 
take the control of Drury Lane Theatre out of the 
hands of Sheridan and his co-proprietors. The case 
came on before Lord Eldon again and again ; and in 
the end an arrangement was come to for the receipts 
being properly dealt with. The landlord was to be paid 
first, then the rates, then the managers, actors, servants 
and tradespeople, and so on through a tremendous string 
of directions." 

" But that doesn't sound like anything very important 
to a biographer." 

" Perhaps not ; but the evidence seems to have been 
very damaging to Sheridan's character. He was on the 
down grade before he got into Chancery, but I think 
those proceedings were the beginning of the public dis- 
repute into which he fell. His friends tried to make 
out that he had secured a great triumph ; but that was 
all bunkum." 

" Did he fight the case himself? " 

" Well, he did and he didn't. He had the Solicitor- 
General and two other lawyers, but he wanted to be 
heard himself, and the Lord Chancellor consented. By- 



SHERIDAN AND LORD ELDON 291 

the-by, that Solicitor-General was afterwards the Prime 
Minister whom Bellingham shot — Spencer Perceval. 
Sheridan was on his legs pretty often dm:ing the pro- 
ceedings and there was one great oration. That was 
when the Old Hall was so crowded." 

" Did you wade through the speech? " 

"No; I'm not an admirer of Sheridan's oratory. 
There's always a fly in his ointment — there's something 
rancid about it. I read the end of the speech, though ; 
that's dreadfully rancid." 

" I've got a note of it," he continued, " and the effect 
of it is this. After dwelling upon the disadvantages 
and temptations of an uncertain and fluctuating income, 
he states that months before the present contention 
arose, he took measures to place himself in the situation 
of having an ascertained and limited income ; and he 
goes on to declare that he means to continue in that 
situation until every debt has been paid, every demand 
satisfied and all his property completely disencumbered. 
That's pretty good for Sheridan ; and now listen to the 
final flourish — Till that moment arrives, I shall live in 
retirement with that spirit of undaunted independence, 
which as a public and private man I trust has ever 
distinguished me." 

"Queer stuff, isn't it?" he resumed, encouraged by 
my laughter; "and just think how the Chancellor 
must have been tickled ! He knew all about Sheridan. 
They had sat on opposite sides of the House of 
Commons for sixteen years." 

" The wonder is Sheridan didn't know better than 
to flaunt that playhouse fustian before Lord Eldon." 

"You can't help laughing, and yet there's some- 
thing almost pitiful in the spectacle of a man trying 
to play one game by the rules of another. Do you 
remember the figure Gladstone cut when he tackled 
Huxley, and argued with him orator-fashion? " 

" How did Eldon deal with the speech ? " I asked. 

" He gave Sheridan a most awful dressing down in a 



292 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

quiet way. It's what he said that makes the incident 
so interesting from a literary point of view." 

By this time Mr. Fairj&eld's enthusiasm was rising 
and his memoranda were very much in evidence. " Just 
listen to this bit near the end : — 

" That was not the place where as an individual he (the Lord 
Chancellor) could recommend to Mr. Sheridan prudence and at- 
tention, but he could not help directing his attention to the con- 
clusion of Johnson's Life of one of the poets, where he says that 
his object is gained if he has shewn that if negligence and irregularity 
are long continued, information becomes useless, wit ridiculous and 
genius contemptible. Negligence and irregularity must be long 
continued, indeed, before such information, such wit and such 
genius as Mr. Sheridan's could ever become useless, ridiculous or 
contemptible. He hoped he did not go beyond his province, when 
he said he had seen in this case negligence and irregularity beyond 
all parallel." 

" I doubt if there's any other instance on record of 
Bldon quoting an author in that way," said I ; " but 
Where's the special literary interest? " 

" Don't you see he rebukes Sheridan out of the 
mouth of Johnson? Johnson had been a friend of 
Sheridan ; it was he who introduced Sheridan into The 
Club. It was almost an hereditary friendship ; for at 
one time Johnson and Thomas Sheridan, the father, 
had been on intimate terms. And Johnson had been a 
friend of Eldon too, and a great friend of Eldon's 
brother, the Sir William Scott who was afterwards 
made Lord Stowell. Lord Stowell was a member of 
The Club — he was the father of it when he died. It 
was he, by-the-by, who carried Johnson into Scotland." 

" It's interesting in a sense," I admitted doubtfully ; 
" because it brings the three together — Johnson, Sheri- 
dan and Eldon." 

" You haven't got it all yet. Savage was the poet 
Johnson was referring to — those lines are the conclusion 
of the * Life ' — and what makes the incident so inter- 
esting to me is this : there was something of a special 
connexion between Johnson and Sheridan, as regards 



" SWINBURNE ON WILLS " 293 

Savage. Years after Savage's death, his tragedy of 
' Sir Thomas Overbury ' was brought out at Covent 
Garden, and Sheridan wrote a prologue, and introduced 
into it a double-barrelled compliment to the ' Life ' and 
to the Dictionary : — 

So pleads the tale, that gives to future times 
The son's misfortunes and the parent's crimes. 
There shall his fame (if owned to-night) survive. 
Fixed by the hand that makes our language live." 

"Bravo," said I. "I doubt if Macaulay himself 
was a better Boswellian than you are." 

When Mr. Fairfield brought back " Swinburne on 
Wills," he laid it down on my table without a word. 

" What do you think of him? " I inquired. 

" A very luminous author, sir. His explanation of 
the difference between a will and a testament is nothing 
less than convincing." 

" What is the difference ? " 

" If a man doesn't appoint an executor, his will is 
only a will ; if he does appoint an executor, it is also a 
testament." 

"But that sounds pretty simple ; and not of much 
practical importance. It's only a question of name 
after all." 

" That old gentleman thought differently. He states 
it over and over again. He can't get away from it ; it's 
always cropping up." 

" Perhaps it was the custom of lawyers three hundred 
years ago to emphasize anything they thought impor- 
tant by saying it more than once." 

Mr. Fairfield's eye twinkled. " How things must 
have altered," said he, " if that was ever a legal custom." 

"Have you found out anything from the book?" I 
inquired. " Did Shakespeare's solicitor know it ? " 

"I must decline to answer for him; but I'm very 
much afraid Captain Cuttle didn't." 



294 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

" He may have read it and forgotten it," he went on ; 
" but it's very unUkely ; for he didn't know what a testa- 
ment was. Do you remember the packet Sol Gills left 
behind him ? — 

" ' My Dear Ned Cuttle. — Enclosed is my will ! ' The Captain 
turned it over, with a doubtful look — 'and Testament. — Where's 
the Testament?' said the Captain, instantly impeaching the ill- 
fated Grinder. ' What have you done with that, my lad ? ' 'I 
never see it,' whimpered Rob. ' Don't keep on suspecting an in- 
nocent lad, Captain. I never touched the Testament.' Captain 
Cuttle shook his head, implying that somebody must be made 
answerable for it. 

What would you say if I wrote a pamphlet — ' Some 
reasons for thinking that Captain Cuttle was unac- 
quainted with "Swinburne on Wills"'?" asked my 
friend, looking up from his memoranda. 

" Whatever I might say, I should think you were 
mad." 

" If you had been turning over pamphlets on Shake- 
speare as I have all this morning, you wouldn't see 
anything very outrageous in a man speculating whether 
Captain Cuttle had or had not read that book of yours." 

" I'm sorry Swinburne bored you so." 

" He didn't bore me, except when he was explaining 
over and over again what a testament was. And to 
tell the truth, I didn't read very much of him. Here 
and there he made me laugh. It tickles one to read 
nowadays that a poor man, being likewise an honest 
man, was not forbidden to be a witness, and that ' a 
manifest usurer ' was not allowed to make a testament." 

" A good many bankers would die without executors 
if that were the law now," I remarked. " So you got 
no new light on Shakespeare? " 

" I got a handful of hard sense — another reminder 
that all theorizing about him and his doings is mere 
foolishness unless you're an expert. Now, I did feel 
safe in trying to picture him signing his will with those 
five witnesses round him. Not a bit of it ! He may 
have signed it all by himself, and got his friends to 



SHAKESPEAKE AND THE LAW 295 

write their names as witnesses, as and when they 
dropped in to see him afterwards." 

" ' Witnes to the publishing hereof is all the will 
says, and the five names follow," continued Mr. Fair- 
field, producing a much annotated copy. 

" But surely, that may mean he signed it in their 
presence." 

" Yes, it may, or it may not ; but that's a very differ- 
ent thing from a certainty. It seems to me that the 
will would have been perfectly good if Shakespeare had 
merely signed or even sealed it, all by his lone self, and 
then put it away in a chest without a soul seeing it. I 
shall have to know a lot more than I do now, before I 
feel sure that ' witnes to the publishing,' meant witness 
to the signing. No, sir, I retire once and for all from 
the speculating business as regards Shakespeare." 

" That first witness, Francis Collins, was Shake- 
speare's solicitor," he went on. " Shakespeare left him a 
legacy." 

"Just like him!" I exclaimed with enthusiasm; 
" what else could you expect of Shakespeare? " 

" Thirteen pounds six and eightpence — the biggest 
legacy outside his own family," said Mr. Fairfield, 
ignoring my question. " Do you think he was ever in 
the law himself?" he asked suddenly. 

" Mr. Lee says he wasn't." 

" I know that. He says that Shakespeare's accurate 
use of legal terms may be attributable in part to his 
observation of the many legal processes in which his 
father was involved, and in part to early intercourse 
VTith members of the Inns of Court. That doesn't 
sound very convincing to me, but he backs it up by 
saying that legal terminology abounded in all plays and 
poems of the time." 

" That doesn't nearly cover the ground," said I, now 
thoroughly interested. "It's very little to the point 
that A, B, C and D, his contemporaries, also used 
legal terms " 



296 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

" Possibly they were lawyers," interrupted Mr. Fair- 
field ; " law was a fashionable study in Elizabeth's reign." 

" No, no ! let us assume that Mr. Lee began by satis- 
fying himself that the contemporaries he relies upon 
— and especially Barnabe Barnes — were not lawyers or 
law students. If they were, his statement wouldn't be 
worth discussion." 

" True; for it would help to prove that Shakespeare 
was a lawyer." 

" No layman is competent to sit in judgment on the 
question," I resumed. " He can't estimate the quantum 
of Shakespeare's legal knowledge ; and as regards the 
contemporaries, I put their legal terminology on one side. 
Nearly all novelists have dabbled in legal matters, but 
that's no evidence that Scott wasn't a lawyer." 

" I think I follow you," said my friend. " You 
mean that Shakespeare must be judged entirely by his 
own writings, and his legal knowledge can only be 
judged by a lawyer." 

" Exactly ; but it follows that in order to ascertain 
the high-water mark of legal knowledge among laymen 
in Shakespeare's time, the legal expert would have to 
consider the writings of his non-legal contemporaries." 

" That's a large order." 

" Immense. The expert would have to begin with 
his mind ' washed clean from opinions,' and he would 
have to saturate himself with the law and practice as 
they stood 300 years ago ; so that upon coming upon 
anything legal he could decide whether it showed 
knowledge or ignorance, I think I can guess how 
much knowledge he would find behind the legal termin- 
ology of those contemporaries ; but you and I are not 
experts, so we won't theorize." 

" Have you read Lord Campbell's little book ? " asked 
my friend. 

" Yes ; years ago. I'd been reading the ' Sonnets ' very 
carefully, and I was so staggered by one or two of the 
legal references, that I got that book to see what Lord 



SHAKESPEARE AND THE LAW 297 

Campbell had to say about Shakespeare's legal acquire- 
ments." 

" And what did you think of it ? " 

"For the time being, I felt completely satisfied that 
Shakespeare had passed years in the law. Lord Camp- 
bell's own doubts seemed to me almost fantastic in the 
face of his proofs. But later on, when I read Mr. Lee's 
* Life,' I felt a little shaken." 

" I've read Campbell's book," said Mr. Fairfield. 
" It's wonderfully convincing ; and there are some 
letters bound up in one of the Museum copies that 
carry the case even farther. Campbell was amazed by 
the number of Shakespeare's legal phrases and allusions. 
As he wasn't an expert in Elizabethan literature, that 
doesn't go for much ; but he says the phrases and al- 
lusions are always correct. He must have been some- 
thing of an authority on that point." 

" He was a splendid authority ; we shall never see 
another like him. As I understand the matter, a great 
deal of the law and practice of Elizabeth's time came 
down to Campbell's day. He started on the investiga- 
tion with an equipment beyond the reach of any modem 
lawyer. He had learnt his business under the old 
system, and he'd practised under it. That's a very 
different thing from getting it up by reading the old 
books. And Campbell was a man of extraordinarily 
active mind, as well as a very sound lawyer." 

" And the old chap read through the whole of the 
plays in order to write that book," said Mr. Fairfield 
musingly: " yes, I agree with you, we have to reckon 
with Campbell." 

" And we have to reckon with Macaulay too," he 
continued. " He was a trained lawyer, and he was fully 
convinced that Shakespeare as a young man had been 
in the lower ranks of the profession." 

" Ah, but he meant in a responsible position — what 
we now call a managing clerk, in fact. That's the 
theory Campbell was inclined to adopt. A mere under- 



298 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

ling might, in a year or two, pick up technical phrases 
and practice-rules and other crumbs of that sort ; and 
he might learn a lot about lawyers from the personal 
standpoint, but he wouldn't pick up law. Take Dickens' 
case, for instance. He had at least eighteen months 
in solicitors' offices ; but could his writings give any 
expert the impression that he was a professional 
lawyer?" 

" But there's a lot of law in ' Pickwick ' and ' Bleak 
House,' and there's the trial in the ' Old Curiosity Shop,' 
and the trial in the ' Tale of Two Cities,' " urged Mr. 
Fairfield, not at all disposed to concede any point against 
his literary idol. 

" The lawyers in Dickens are first-rate ; but the law is 
nothing. There's next to none, I think, in ' Pickwick ' ; 
and there's nothing in the Chancery parts of ' Bleak 
House ' that a layman couldn't have got out of pam- 
phlets and such like. The trial in the ' Old Curiosity 
Shop ' is defective from a technical standpoint, and the 
trial in ' Pickwick ' is simply grotesque. Dickens was 
riper when he wrote the ' Tale of Two Cities '. There 
the Old Bailey proceedings are a masterpiece. But he 
went to Pitt's treason trials for them. There's no 
personal experience behind the writing." 

" I suppose you'd rejoice exceedingly if it were proved 
that Shakespeare did spend those unrecorded years in 
the law?" 

" ' I hold every man a debtor to his profession ' — 
that's Bacon's phrase — so of course I should be glad of 
anything that threw such a lustre on mine." 

" The captain jewel in the carcanet," said my friend 
musingly. " Aye, aye, he certainly would be that ! 
But Shakespeare or no Shakespeare," he went on, as he 
lay back in his chair, and began to tick off the names 
on his fingers, " your profession doesn't come off badly 
— Bacon himself — Fielding — Scott — Macaulay : all 
proper, work-a-day lawyers. And the old antic can 
make some sort of a claim to Dickens and Thackeray. 



THE BACON THEORY 299 

I won't bother about the littler men ; though it seems 
hard to leave out Cowper and Boswell." 

" They were all members of the Bar, except Dickens," 
I said, laughing, " and even he joined an Inn of Court ; 
but it's natural enough for a layman to draw no distinc- 
tion between the two branches." 

" You could claim Chatterton, anyhow, if Lambert 
of Bristol hadn't cancelled his indentures " 

" We call them articles," I hinted. 

" I know you do, but they were indentures in those 
days, and the apprentice served for seven years," 

" Now I come to think of it, seven years was the 
term : Boswell says so." 

" ' Nemo repente turpissimus fuit,' " murmured Mr. 
Fairfield, " ' — it takes seven years to make an attorney.' 
Isn't that real wit? I never feel sure which is the 
better, that, or ' The road to hell is paved with good 
intentions '." 

"I'm rather partial myself to the joke about the 
two insects. It wasn't easy to settle the point of pre- 
cedency between them, you may remember." 

" Oh, yes ! I remember that." And my friend be- 
ginning — " ' Do you reckon Derrick or Smart the best 
poet,' " pursued the quotation to the bitter end. 

" I was once a little bitten by that Bacon theory," 
said Mr. Fairfield shamefacedly, as he began to gather 
up his papers, and his eye fell upon the will. 

"'My country — right or wrong,' is an excellent 
maxim." 

The good patriot responded with a laugh. " I never 
considered it from that standpoint, but now you men- 
tion it, I suppose we were the original culprits. Well, 
well, both sides of the Atlantic can claim to have had 
a deal in the wooden nutmegs and the clocks that 
wouldn't figure, at one time or another! Were you 
ever bitten? " 

" No. The bait wasn't very tempting to a legal per- 
son. When you learnt that no man could read 



300 KAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

Donnelly's cryptogram but Donnelly himself, you lost 

interest in it. And as for Mrs. Gallup's cypher " 

" That didn't get a fair show," broke in the con- 
vert. " I was sane long before then, and I thought we 
were going to have some real fun when Mr. Mallock 
took the field. It was too bad of Mr. Marston to prick 
the bubble so early : — 

Sweet rose, fair flower, untimely plucked, soon vaded 
Plucked in the bud and vaded in the spring ! 

What a game it was ! Even the stalwarts shied a 
little when they were asked to believe that Bacon 
wrote Pope's ' Homer '." 

" We've heard the last of the cyphermongers," said I. 

" That's what comes of over-sugaring the punch. 
But we haven't heard the last of the theory. I know 
now, that Bacon no more wrote the plays and poems 
than I did, but I can feel a sort of sympathy with the 
Baconians all the same. Unless something turns up 
to show how those unrecorded years were spent, we 
shall never be able to reconcile the young Shakespeare 
of the London playhouses with the country lad who 
married Anne Hathaway." 

Mr. Fairfield wound up with a shake of the head ; 
and he began to glance through the type-written pages 
of the will, as if to make sure that there was no note 
or query which called for my legal aid. Presently he 
looked up, a broad grin on his face. 

" How would it do to suggest that the real author 
was Francis Collins the solicitor, and that Shakespeare 
left him that legacy as hush money? " 



SHAKESPEARE'S WILL 301 



POSTSCEIPT 

EPITOME OF THE WILL OF WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, 
OF STRATFORD-UPON-AVON IN THE COUNTY OF 
WARWICK, GENTLEMAN 

Will dated 25tli March, 1616. 

Legacy of £150 to the Testator's daughter Judith : £100 of the 
same to be paid in discharge of her marriage portion within a year 
after the Testator's decease, with interest at ten per cent, from the 
date of his decease, and £50, the residue, to be paid on the legatee 
surrendering, or giving security to surrender, to the Testator's 
daughter Susanna Hall and her heirs for ever, the legatee's interest 
in a copyhold tenement, holden [by the Testator] of the Manor 
of Rowington. 

Further legacy of £150 to the said daughter Judith if she or 
any issue of hers should be living at the end of three years after 
the date of the Testator's will. Interest at the rate of ten per 
cent, to be paid to her in the meantime. 

In the event of the death of the said daughter Judith within the 
said period, without issue, £100, part of the said legacy, given to 
the Testator's niece [really granddaughter] Elizabeth Hall, and 
£50, the residue, given to the Testator's executors upon trust for 
his sister Joan Harte, for life, with remainder to her children in 
equal shares. 

In the event of the said daughter Judith, or any of her issue, 
being alive at the end of the said three years, then the said £150 
to be invested by the Testator's executors and overseers. The 
capital not to be paid to her during coverture, but the income to be 
paid to her for life, and, after her death, the legacy to be paid to 
her children, or, failing children, to her executors or assigns. 

Proviso that if such husband as the said daughter Judith should 
be married to at the end of the said three years, should assure to 
her and her issue, to the satisfaction of the Testator's executors 
and overseers, lands answerable to the portion given unto her by 
the Testator's will, then the said £150 to be paid to such husband. 

Legacy to the Testator's said sister Joan of twenty pounds and 
all his wearing apparel. 

Devise to the said sister Joan, for life, of the house in Stratford 
occupied by her, subject to the yearly rent of a shilling. 

Legacies of Five pounds apiece to the said sister Joan's three 
sons. 

Legacy to the said Elizabeth Hall of all the Testator's plate, 
except his broad silver and gilt bowl. 

Further legacies as follows, namely — to the poor of Stratford, ten 
pounds ; to Mr. Thomas Combe, the Testator's sword ; to Thomas 
Russell, Esq., five pounds ; to Francis Collins of the Borough of 
Warwick, gentleman, thirteen pounds six shillings and eight pence ; 



302 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

to Hamlett Sadler, twenty-six shillings and eight pence^ to buy him 
a ring ; to William Reynoldes, gentleman, twenty-six shillings and 
eight pence, to buy him a ring; to the Testator's godson William 
Walker, twenty shillings in gold ; to Anthony Nashe, gentleman, 
twenty-six shillings and eight pence ; to Mr. John Nashe, twenty- 
six shillings and eight pence ; and to the Testator's "fellowes " John 
Hemynges, Richard Burbage and Henry Cundell, twenty-six shil- 
lings and eight pence apiece, to buy them rings. 

Devise to the Testator's daughter Susanna Hall (for better en- 
abling her to perform his will and towards the performance thereof) 
of the " capital messuage, or tenement, with the appurtenances in 
Stratford aforesaid, called the New Place," wherein the Testator 
then dwelt, and all other his lands, tenements and hereditaments 
whatsoever, for life, with remainder to the first, second, third, 
fourth, fifth, sixth and seventh sons of the said Susanna Hall suc- 
cessively, in tail male. 

In default of such issue " the said premises to be and remain " 
to the Testator's "said niece Hall," and her heirs male. 

In default of such issue of the said Elizabeth Hall, the said pre- 
mises to be and remain to the Testator's daughter Judith and her 
heirs male. 

And in default of such last-mentioned issue, the said premises 
to be and remain to the Testator's right heirs. 

Legacy to the Testator's wife of his second-best bed with the 
furniture. 

Legacy to the Testator's said daughter Judith, of his broad 
silver gilt bowl. 

Gift of all the rest of the Testator's goods, chattels, leases, plate, 
jewels and household stuff whatsoever, after payments of his debts, 
legacies and funeral expenses, to the Testator's son-in-law John 
JSall, gentleman, and the Testator's daughter Susannah, his wife. 

Appointment of the last-named two persons as executors of the 
will. 

Appointment of the said Thomas Russell and Francis Collins 
as overseers of the wdl. 

Revocation of all former wills. 

Will signed by the Testator on the 25th of March, 1616, and its 
publication attested by five witnesses. 



CHAPTEE XXIV 

THE BULL HOTEL, ROCHESTER : I AM INVITED TO 
STUDY "EDWIN DROOD" 

Me. James C. Faiefibld stood at one of the windows 
of the coffee-room of the Bull Hotel at Eochester, and 
looked out upon the High Street. 

" The old red, royal Dover road," he said compla- 
cently. " I'm glad to see it again." 

"Is it really the old Dover road ? " 

" No doubt about that, sir ; it's the old highway from 
London to Canterbury and Dover. Between here and 
London, the present main thoroughfare deviates a bit 
from the old way ; so as to pass through Gravesend, I 
think. And a little beyond us, it loops out to the 
right so as to get clear of Chatham High Street ; but 
there's no deviation here. That motor omnibus is 
running in the same track that folks used in the time 
of William the Conqueror. I believe I might carry it 
back to the Eomans. They made a bridge over the 
Medway here. When the present bridge was being 
built — it stands about a hundred yards to our left — they 
came upon the piles of the old Eoman bridge." 

"It's a very narrow road," I remarked. "When 
two omnibuses are abreast there doesn't seem to be an 
inch to spare ; I wonder the Corporation doesn't widen 
it." 

" When you've once walked down the High Street, 
you'll be ready to fall on your knees and pray they 
won't do anything of the kind." Mr. Fairfield spoke 
almost angrily. 

303 



304 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

" There are some of the oldest houses in England on 
both sides of the way," he went on. " Surely you 
wouldn't have them pulled down? " 

" So long as the road's wide enough to allow me to 
exercise my common-law right of passage, your old 
houses may stand until the crack of doom," said I, with 
lavish generosity. 

" What is the common-law right ? " 

" To pass and repass — to use the road as a highway. 
That is the law of England as laid down in the leading 
case of Dovaston v. Payne. You will find it in Henry 
Blackstone's Reports — I can show it you at Gray's Inn." 

"It's a grand right," he remarked solemnly. "I'm 
afraid Mr. "Winkle strained it a bit when he got on that 
horse of his. He drifted up the street broadside on." 

" There's nearly half an hour to dinner time and the 
daylight will hold out till then," he said, a little later. 
" Let us take a turn between the showers." 

Mr. Fairfield had pressed me to spend part of the 
Easter vacation at Rochester. I had at first demurred, 
on the ground that Easter weather was always treacher- 
ous ; but he had seemed so anxious for my company 
that I had at length given way. On the journey down, 
the rain had lashed against the carriage windows, and 
we had driven from the station in a downpour. But 
the weather had cleared since we settled at the Bull, so 
I was nothing loth to take a stroll before dinner. 

" We'll just potter along towards Chatham," said he. 

" What's that red-brick building opposite ? " I asked, 
as we turned out of the hotel gateway. 

" That's the town-hall. It was built in James the 
Second's time. Hogarth played hopscotch there in 
1732. I'm glad I wasn't one of the party." 

"Why?" 

" They weren't what I should call refined, and their 
method of feeding was positively uncivilized. They 
were eating and drinking at all sorts of odd times." 

Before that stroll ended, I had come round to 



THE BULL AT ROCHESTER 305 

my friend's view that Eochester High Street must not 
be widened. There was no denying the picturesqueness 
of the old houses. 

" A change since I was last here ! " was my guide's 
ejaculation, as we came on a gateway just past the 
King's Head Hotel. ''That's the College Gate. It 
used to stand between two houses. They've cleared 
one away. I wish they hadn't. I admit there's a 
much better view of the cathedral and the keep ; but 
this is Jasper's gatehouse, and I'd rather it had been 
left as Dickens knew it. But we won't begin to talk 
about ' Edwin Drood ' until after dinner." 

" Another change here," he announced a little farther 
on, when we reached a gap in the houses and stood to 
admire the view of the north side of the cathedral which 
the opening afforded. " Well, I must confess this is 
an improvement. The Dean and Chapter must have 
screwed their courage to the sticking-place before they 
went to the expense of such a clearance as this." 

Our progress along the High Street was very slow, 
for there were so many interesting house fronts to ex- 
amine. Mr. Fairfield could not pass the Corn Exchange 
or Watts' Charity, without some reference to their 
associations with Dickens ; nor could he pass the house 
opposite to the Post Office, without telling me that it 
was once Sir Eichard Head's, and that through the 
garden behind, James II had stolen away to the river 
to embark for France, about a fortnight after he had 
dropped the Great Seal into the Thames at Lambeth. 
Even his determination not to refer to " Edwin Drood " 
was forgotten almost as soon as it was uttered. 

" There are the old houses opposite Eastgate House," 
he said, pointing to some houses with peaked roofs and 
overhanging upper storeys, a little distance ahead of us, 
and at the same time beginning a diagonal move across 
the road in their direction; "Mr. Sapsea lived in one 
of those — and his father before him : ' Eest and bless 
him!'" 
20 



306 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

We did not give much attention to those mediaeval 
reHcs after all ; for just as we had begun to examine 
them, something caught my friend's eye on the other 
side of the way. He stopped dead and fairly whistled 
with astonishment. 

" Jee-rusalem ! " he exclaimed, " This is wonder- 
ful ! " 

The object of his amazement was an Elizabethan 
mansion of very picturesque appearance and in excellent 
preservation. One side abutted on the roadway ; and 
across a green fore-court railed off from the pavement, 
the front with its deep, three-storeyed bays, two- 
storeyed porch and staircase turret was fully visible from 
where we stood. 

" I remember now, I did notice in the newspapers 
that the Corporation had bought it. But who could 
have imagined they would make it look like this? 
When I last saw it, those court-yards were hidden by a 
brick wall, and what you could see of the house was 
quite depressing. It seemed falling into decay." 

So saying, Mr. Fairfield made his way across the 
road and scanned a notice-board that stood in the fore- 
court. 

" They've made it into a museum," he said. " This 
is luck. I remember how I longed to get a peep at 
the inside when I was here before. Don't you think 
we might look in for a minute or two? " 

I was strongly tempted to give way ; but knowing 
right well what that minute or two would mean, I 
hardened my heart. 

" We're late for dinner as it is." 

I was Mr. Fairfield's guest and he bowed to the in- 
evitable with a good grace. 

" Yes, we must be moving; we shall have plenty of 
opportunities of exploring it before we go," he said with 
cheerful resignation. But even as he spoke he " turned 
and looked, and turned to look again ". 

" We might just step into the enclosure and glance 





-s^. - 



=: , «■ 



THE BULL AT ROCHESTER 307 

at the porch," he suggested meekly. I lifted the latch 
and followed him inside. 

" It's a glorious place," he proclaimed, as he stood 
with his eyes glued on the red hrickwork of the front. 
" And Dickens knew it. It's the Nuns' House of 
' Edwin Drood '. Eosa went to school here. And just 
where we're standing she bade the girls good-bye. 
Don't you remember the picture — ' Good-bye, Bosebud, 
darling ' ? Don't look so like a martyr," he broke off, 
melting into a smile as he turned in my direction. 

" My stomach," said I, with gentle dignity, " has 
begun to sorter growl and pester me." A quotation 
from Uncle Eemus was a sure card to play with Mr. 
Fairfield. 

" They shall fix you up a smashin' dinner presently ; 
but just let me have one more look at the place from 
the other side of the way first. I really will not be two 
seconds." 

" Have you coached yourself up in the Pickwickian 
associations of this tavern?" was my host's question 
as soon as we were both seated at table in the Bull 
coffee-room. 

" Good heavens, no ! Have you ? " 

" Ye-es ! I've been studying a little book by Mr. 
Hammond Hall called ' Mr. Pickwick's Kent '. You 
shall look at it when we go upstairs. I like the spirit 
in which he writes about Dickens ; but I don't see with 
him eye to eye — he's an enthusiast." 

Mr. Fairfield said this so reproachfully and with 
such a judicial shake of the head that I burst out 
laughing. 

He made no acknowledgment of the reasonableness 
of my merriment. He seemed in fact to be wholly ab- 
sorbed in the dissection of a piece of ox-tail upon his 
soup-plate, but there was a humorous pucker in his lips, 
and after a moment or two's silence he began to justify 
himself. 

•' He professes to locate the very bedrooms in which 



308 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

Pickwick and the other three slept. I never went to 
that length." 

" I suppose you'll be having a look at them, neverthe- 
less? " said I. 

"Oh, yes; why not? After all, Dickens may have 
had the actual rooms in mind. There's no doubt he 
knew this house well. And we must see the ball-room. 
I just peeped in while you were unpacking. I wasn't 
there more than two minutes, but I saw the gallery 
where the musicians sat and the den under it where the 
card-tables were." 

By this time the trans- Atlantic enthusiast was fairly 
mounted on his hobby. 

" I had a look at the staircase too," he went on. 
" That's where Jingle and the doctor quarrelled ; and it 
was in this room — this very identical room we're sitting 
in — that Mr. Winkle came down next morning to re- 
ceive the challenge from Lieutenant Tappleton. And 
this room's mentioned again in 'Great Expectations'. 
It was before that very mantelpiece, not a yard to my 
left, that Pip and Bentley Drummle stood and wrangled. 
That's why I asked the waiter to let us have this corner 
table." 

" I wonder if the other enthusiast went as far as 
that." 

Mr. Fairfield grinned. " He mentions the incident 
anyhow. It was coming across his book that made me 
first think of spending a few days here ; and then I 
began to re-read ' Edwin Drood,' and I felt that come I 
must." 

"Why?" 

" There's a lot about Rochester in it and I felt a sort 
of longing to see the place again, and I had a sort of 
half -hope " — here Mr. Fairfield's manner began to grow 
very confidential — "I had a sort of half -hope I might 
be able to clear up some things I've often puzzled over, 
and I've never been able to understand. That book 
has bothered me for five-and-thirty years, more than 



THE BULL AT ROCHESTER 309 

anything else I've ever read. Do you take any interest 
in it?" 

" I'm fond of the book," I admitted. " I remember 
the green numbers coming out in 1870 ; and though I 
was really too young to understand much of them, I 
read them because they were by Dickens, who had 
written ' Pickwick ' and ' Oliver Twist '. We had these 
two books at home, and I think I tackled them at about 
nine." 

" Do you read them still ? " 

" I dip into them sometimes — I know them too well 
for anything else. But I haven't looked at ' Edwin 
Drood ' for years," 

Mr. Fairfield beamed with satisfaction. " I've got it 
with me. Just you run through it while we're here, 
and then we can talk about it — about the clues that it 
offers." 

" Not to-night. I've got some papers to attend to — 
it's your fault for dragging me from Gray's Inn a day 
before the vacation begins." 

" There's the ball-room." By this time we had left 
the coffee-room and had reached the first-floor corridor ; 
and as he spoke he pointed to a door at the end of the 
left-hand passage. " I don't think it's altered at all 
since the Pickwick time. The chandeliers are there 
and the two mantelpieces, right enough. And there are 
some old portraits." 

"You did pretty well in that two minutes," I re- 
marked suspiciously. 

" Well, I had another minute or two a little later. I'm 
afraid I owe you an apology. When you happened to 
mention a little time ago that you'd eaten two pieces of 
bread before I came down to dinner, I felt quite con- 
science-stricken.' ' 

" I sat watching the soup-tureen and wondering 
what was detaining my host," said I reproachfully. 

His confession was a severe trial to one's gravity, but 
I could not let it pass without protest. To be kept 



310 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

waiting for my dinner while he mooned about the ball- 
room, was all in the day's work, but for him to glory in 
his iniquity with a grin that stretched from ear to ear 
was not seemly. 

"I had a peep at you through the door before I 
hurried in, and hoped I hadn't kept you waiting," he 
answered in a shaking voice. 

" ' To-night we'll merry be ; to-morrow we'll be 
sober,' " he said, recovering his dignity. " You go and 
read your papers, and I won't disturb you. The truth 
is I'm like a child with a new toy " — here he patted me 
on the shoulder — " and I've some very particular fish to 
fry on my own account." Here he dived into the 
broad recess near which we were standing, and helped 
himself to a candlestick. " I'm going to have a potter 
about that ball-room. If the landlord comes to talk to 
you about me, I rely on your assuring him of my 
perfect sanity." 

He was half-way across the corridor as he launched 
this parting shot from over his shoulder. Never before 
had I seen him in such exuberant spirits. 

It was past ten o'clock when he joined me in our sit- 
ting-room. I was busy writing, and without a word he 
glided to the fireside and began to make notes upon 
some slips of paper in his pocket-book. 

" Have you exhausted all the wonders of the ball- 
room? " I asked him, at length. 

" I have made a fairly thorough inspection of a super- 
ficial character," he answered gravely. " You will be 
interested to learn that at the farther end there is a 
door which gives upon a staircase leading into the yard. 
Be careful how you open it, for one of the hinges is 
broken." 

" I must make a note of that. By-the-by, to what 
extent did you resign yourself to the influences of that 
astonishing room ? — to put the matter plainly, did you 
dance much? " 

"What on earth makes you ask that?" There 



THE BULL AT ROCHESTER 311 

was a something in Mr. Fairfield's way of meeting my 
random shot that was distinctly suggestive of guiltiness. 

"But did you?" 

" Well, to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing 
but the truth, I believe I did try a step or two — per- 
haps half a dozen at the outside." 

'' The shadow dance can have been nothing to it ; I 
hope you didn't drop much grease about," I said, laugh- 
ing. " What have you been doing with the rest of the 
time since dinner? " 

" ' Loungin' round ; loungin' round and sufferin',' " 
he answered, with an outward movement of both hands. 
From this I concluded that he had been making a 
further examination of the outside of Eastgate House. 

" You've finished your business ? " he inquired, rising 
to his feet. " Then I'll just have a word with you about 
* Edwin Drood,' " he went on, in answer to my nod of 
assent ; at the same time beginning to rout among his 
books. " I want you to read it with what Forster says 
about the plot in your mind. That will help you to focus 
your attention on the clues. He says that by means of 
a gold ring that had resisted the corrosive action of the 
lime into which the murderer had thrown the body, 
not only the person murdered was to be identified, 
but the locality of the crime and the man who com- 
mitted it." 

He had been reading from a note written inside the 
cover of " Edwin Drood," and when he reached the end, 
he seemed half- inclined to hand the volume to me. 
I saw he was anxious that my studies should begin then 
and there ; and, nothing loth, I was just about to stretch 
out my hand, when, smitten by a sudden thought, he 
moved to the fireside and began to turn over the leaves 
as if in search of some particular passage. He soon 
found what he wanted, and he stood on the rug running 
his finger down the page. When, however, a few 
minutes later, I looked over to him after I had tied up 
my papers, he had curled himself up in his chair and 



312 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

was wholly absorbed in tbe story. Thus he remained 
until the cathedral clock struck midnight. 

" Twelve o'clock," said I. 

" Bless me ! " he ejaculated, rousing himself. 
" Twelve o'clock ! Time we were both in bed." 

" You won't be wanting to begin ' Edwin Drood ' to- 
night, will you?" 

It was-with his candlestick in one hand and the book 
under his arm that he said this as we shook hands at 
the door of my bedroom. 



CHAPTEK XXV 

WE RAMBLE TO GADSHILL 

"And where are we to go to-day?" demanded Mr. 
Fairfield at breakfast next morning. It was the last 
day of March and the coffee-room was bright with sun- 
shine. 

"I've never been over Chatham dockyard; it must 
be well worth seeing." 

I was watching my friend out of the tail of mj' eye 
as I said this, and I noticed with delight how his face 
fell at the suggestion. He had not come to the Dickens 
country to study shipbuilding. 

" I expect one dockyard's a good deal like another," 
he observed slowly. 

" Which have you seen ? " 

" I'm not sure I've ever seen one," was his reluctant 
admission; and then, after a pause, he added, " By all 
means let us go to Chatham." 

My host said this with a brisk cheerfulness that did 
him honour, but his countenance was anything but joy- 
ful. 

" It's what Hogarth and his friends did when they 
came here, and Dickens knew the yard, even as a boy," 
he went on, as if trying to persuade himself that the 
prospect was not so black as it looked. 

" It's a wonderful place. Queen Elizabeth made it 
a royal dockyard — nobody ought to miss seeing it ! " 

Mr. Fairfield's only response to my enthusiasm was 
a vacant stare directed out of the window. 

" Not that it's much in my line to potter about a 
313 



314 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

dockyard ; but if you're keen on it, by all means let us 
go," said I ; satisfied at length that accounts between 
us in respect of those two pieces of bread had been fully 
squared. 

My host rose to his feet and planted himself before 
the fire, as if to consider matters. It was not long 
before he had made up his mind. 

" How would it do to go and have a look at Gads- 
hill ? " I had known from the first that this was what 
he had set his heart upon. 

" You see that tavern," he said, pointing to the 
Crown, a minute or two after we had started on our 
pilgrimage ; " that's where Jingle advised the Pick- 
wickians not to put up, because it was so dear, 
' Wright's next house,' he called it. "Wright kept it in 
those days. The old house has been pulled down, but 
there's a good bit of the river front left. Mr. Ham- 
mond Hall is my authority. There was a Crown here, 
or hereabouts, in thirteen hundred. I daresay Shake- 
speare put up at it, and it's more than likely he had it in 
mind when he wrote the carriers' scene in ' Henry IV ' ." 

" I suppose he must have passed through Eochester," 
I admitted. " It seems fairly certain that at some time 
or other he was at Dover." 

" All the great main roads have a fascination for me ; 
I'm glad they've found a chronicler. I've only read 
one of Mr. Harper's books — ' The Great North Eoad ' 
— but I mean to read all of them. It seems to me that 
this road is more interesting than any of the others, 
because it was the way to the Continent ; and so every- 
body who was anybody was bound to travel along here 
some time or another before the railways came." 

We had got clear of the Strood traffic and were breast- 
ing the hill, when after a long silence, my friend said this. 

" But only if they were going to Dover or some port 
near it — Henry the Fifth sailed from Southampton," I 
interrupted, smitten by a flash of memory. 

"True, so he did; Shakespeare says so. I suppose 



GADSHILL 315 

he was going to Normandy ; I ought to have thought 
of Southampton, but I'm sure Calais was what most 
travellers made for, at all events later on. I don't 
think I take much account of things before the sixteenth 
century." 

My friend had readjusted his mental focus with com- 
mendable adroitness, but his conscience smote him for 
not having made a fuller acknowledgment of his error. 

" I was thinking of Wolsey," he said apologetically. 
" When he made his famous journey for Henry the 
Seventh to the Emperor Maximilian at Bruges, he went 
and came back by way of Calais. And I was thinking of 
Cardinal Pole's state entry into England in Queen Mary's 
time. He and his cavalcade passed along here, and so did 
everybody who went between London and Dover. 
There was the harbour there, you see, and harbours 
weren't common in old times. There's a very quaint 
description of this road in a charter of Charles the First. 
I think I can find it — yes, here it is — the charter calls it 
the King's highway and common passage between our 
city of London, the metropolis of England, and our 
cities of Rochester and Canterbury and our eminent 
haven of Dover. ' Our eminent haven of Dover,' you 
observe ; and the only way to and from London was 
over Rochester bridge." 

" So I gathered from your guide-books last night. 
And I saw that Charles the Second came through Ro- 
chester at the Restoration. He halted there for the night, 
between Canterbury and London." 

" That was at Restoration House. It was renamed 
in honour of the event. We mustn't forget to have a 
look at it. There's not the shadow of a doubt that 
Charles the Second passed along this road on his way to 
Whitehall. I've read somewhere that both sides were 
lined with booths like a fair " 

Mr. Fairfield stopped short and scanned the prospect 
in front of us. I do not think he found it easy to pic- 
ture the highway, lined with booths and gay with the 



316 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

pageantry of that mad 29th of May, 1660 ; for, with a 
shake of his head, he resumed his progress and began 
to talk about Hogarth. 

" Hogarth and his four friends went to Gravesend by 
boat, and they walked along this road to Rochester. 
It's under nine miles. They drank three times on the 
way. They put up at the Crown, and they had another 
drink there. Then they had a look at the castle, and the 
Town Hall, and Watts' Hospital, and pottered about 
the High Street till dinner time. We know what they 
had for dinner. There was a dish of soles and flounders 
with crab sauce, a roast calf's head 'with 'purt'nance 
minced and liver fried ' ; and they had a leg of mutton 
and green peas. I suppose they had two or three 
puddings to follow, and topped off with a good wedge 
of cheese, but that's not on record. They drank beer 
and port wine — ' Fresh was the beer and sound the 
port,' says the chronicler. Do you remember how 
Thackeray describes Jos Sedley's condition, when he 
arrived in London from Southampton?" asked my 
friend, flying off at a tangent and continuing his discourse 
with intense enjoyment without waiting for my answer. 
" Thackeray says Jos was as full of wine, beer, meat, 
cherry-brandy, and tobacco as the steward's cabin of a 
steam-packet. Hogarth's party must have been like 
that after dinner, but he and his brother-in-law were 
equal to playing hopscotch in the Town Hall ; and a 
little later the whole party was sauntering through 
Chatham eating shrimps." 

" How old was Hogarth? " 

" That's just what I wondered when I read the 
' Peregrination,' and I looked it up. He was thirty- 
four. I'm afraid he was a bit of a gorger all his life. 
He was sixty-six when he died. He was in poor health 
for some little time before, but it's on record that before 
he went to bed on the night of his death, he boasted — 
boasted is the word ! — of having eaten a pound of beef- 
steak for his dinner," 



GADSHILL 317 

" We degenerates couldn't have done that even in 
our prime," was my regretful comment. " There's 
comfort though in the thought that he boasted of it — it 
shows that even in those days it was something for a 
dying man to be proud of." 

"I don't suppose he knew he was dying," answered 
Mr. Fairfield with a merriment quite out of character 
with the subject of our talk ; " but even if he didn't, he 
had no business to make such a beast of himself. And 
to boast of it afterwards was simply unspeakable. By- 
the-by, the Crown wasn't a dear place in his time. 
The five pilgrims began by having a drink there ; then 
they had that dinner; they were back again in the 
evening and no doubt they had another meal ; they 
smoked their pipes and drank their wine till they went 
to bed, and next morning they had breakfast. And yet 
the bill, including tips, if there were any in those days, 
was under thirty shillings — a little over five shillings a 
head for bed, three meals, port wine, beer and extras at 
one of the most important inns on the dearest road in 
England. That was in 1732." 

" Those were grand days," said I. " No wonder 
their elderly men took a large size in waistcoats ! " 

By this time we were well past the second milestone 
from Eochester, and were again climbing a hill. Mr. 
Fairfield consulted his map ; and not another word did 
he say until we had reached a level piece of road with 
a tavern on the right hand, and just beyond it on the 
left, a biggish, red-brick, ivy-clad house with a bell 
turret. 

" Gadshill Place ! " said I, giving him a slight dig 
with my elbow, to let him know that I was wantonly 
forestalling one of his dramatic announcements. 

"I admit it," he answered, smiling ; "I won't put 
you to proof of it." 

We moved on until we were opposite the house, and 
then stood for a while examining it as well as we could 
for the trees and shrubs upon the grass plot. The ground 



318 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

floor had a porch with large bay-windows to right and 
left, and close beside it, on the right, was a smaller 
window that probably gave light to the hall. There 
were corresponding bay-windows on the first floor, with 
a. big, flat window between them ; and behind the para- 
pet above, there rose a slated attic storey, crowned by 
the bell turret. On the right of the house were some 
buildings that looked like stables and offices, and on the 
left was a conservatory. An entrance gate on either 
side of the front garden gave access to the drive. 
Stretching outwards from each of these gates was a good 
length of brick waU with an outer fringe of pollards. 

" Edmund Yates summed the place up very well," 
said my companion, when we had retraced our steps as 
far as the left-hand wall and were taking a side view of 
the house from across the well-trenched kitchen garden. 
" He called it a comfortable, stout, red-faced, old- 
fashioned family house with a wide porch and a bell 
tower, which always associated it in his mind with the 
Warren at Chigwell." This description, which came, 
I need hardly mention, from one of my friend's inex- 
haustible stores of memoranda, was manifestly accurate 
and complete. 

" This was where the chalet was," he continued, as 
he led the way across the road to a garden or shrubbery 
that faced the house and abutted on the highway. Im- 
mediately below us, on the other side of the railings, 
was a flight of very steep steps that seemed to descend 
into the bowels of the earth. 

" That's the approach to the tunnel he made under 
the road," explained my companion. " What a wonder- 
ful growth of ivy there is on each side ! " 

There were two fine cedar trees just within the rail- 
ing, before which we stood. The ground between us 
and the more umbrageous background of the shrubbery 
was covered with smooth turf, rising on the left to the 
soft swell of a bank, crowned with a promise of spring 
blossoms. 



GADSHILL 319 

" Linda, his big St. Bernard, was buried under one 
of those cedars. The chdlet in which he was working 
at ' Edwin Drood ' for the last time was somewhere 
among those trees at the back. The room was full of 
mirrors that reflected all the surroundings. He was 
fond of mirrors — fond of red geraniums too. His 
daughter Katie once told him that when he was an 
angel his wings would be made of looking-glass and his 
crown of scarlet geraniums." 

A lane skirts one side of the house, and continuing 
across the highway, it skirts the wall of the detached 
garden and leads, I think, to Higham. 

" Let's go down that lane. He had a beautiful view 
from the chdlet, and we ought to make out something of it 
from round the corner. I've got a note somewhere of 
what he says in one of his letters about that view." 

" Ordinary enough as we see it," said Mr. Fairfield 
when we had followed the lane for a few paces and had 
gazed for awhile at the prospect it commanded ; " but 
he could see the river. The chalet was mounted on a 
foundation of brick, and his room was the upper one." 

We turned back, and, seating ourselves on the coping 
of the low wall that formed the base of the shrubbery rail- 
ings, we resigned ourselves to the consolation of tobacco. 

" He planted those trees," said my friend, pointing 
across the road to the pollards fringing the wall to left 
and right of us. " They're limes — eighteen on one 
side and ten on the other. There are some more in the 
meadow at the back of the house — some chestnuts too. 
He chose trees that grew quickly. Do you see that red 
letter-box in the left-hand gate post ? That was put up 
in his time. He wanted it put there, and I think 
Edmund Yates worked the oracle for him. I should 
like to post a letter in that box. He must have posted 
hundreds. That big bay-window to the right of the porch 
was, I think, his study window. His desk was close up 
to it. You remember Fildes' picture of the Vacant 
Chair. When I came here before, I don't think you 



320 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

coiild see much of the house from the road — there's 
such a lot of foliage in the way in the summer." 

" I shouldn't like to work at a table set in a win- 
dow." 

" No, nor I. He must have been as fond of working 
in strong sunshine as Scott was. The last writing he 
ever did was, I suppose, at that window. He'd been 
busy with ' Edwin Drood ' in the chalet all the morn- 
ing, and he went back to it after lunch. It wasn't 
usual for him to work in the afternoon, but he was 
anxious to get on with the story. He knocked off at 
about five and went over to the house. We're told he 
wrote some notes in the study. Do you remember his 
death?" 

" Oh, yes ! I was a boy at the time, and I remember 
being told that Charles Dickens was dead." 

" It was a lovely June afternoon. The weather that 
day, and the view from the chalet, had suggested the 
passage that begins — ' A brilliant morning shines over the 
old city '. It's a beautiful passage ; there's such a lot of 
colour in it, such compression too. I've often studied the 
manuscript ; it's so interesting to see how he altered as 
he went on. He must have been working very slowly 
that day. An hour after he had left off he had the 
seizure. He never regained consciousness, though he 
lived for twenty-four hours. It isn't difficult to picture 
him going down those steps for the last time." 

My friend had risen to his feet and was leaning over 
the railings and gazing at the steps with wistful eyes. 
During the long pause which followed I wondered 
whether in imagination he was conjuring up the figure 
of Charles Dickens as he looked that afternoon. "When 
Mr. Fairfield spoke I felt no doubt about it. 

" He must have left the chalet with his mind full of 
'Edwin Drood'' — we are told he was silent, tired and 
abstracted, but that was nothing unusual when he'd 
been writing. He must have come over the grass to 
that iron wicket. It wouldn't be open as it is now ; 



GADSHILL 321 

he'd have shut it behind him when he went through it 
after lunch. Trust him for that ! He'd have on a Hght 
summer suit and one of those hard, round hats with a 
flat brim' — that was the shape five-and-thirty years ago 
— and he'd wear it on one side. He always did. I'm 
afraid he was dreadfully hacked about the face. He'd 
been ill for some time, and just then he'd be very tired. 
And I think he'd move very wearily, and the left foot 
would drag a bit. He'd had a lot of trouble with it. 
He'd go down those steps with his mind full of ' Edwin 
Drood '. Not a soul but himself knew how it was going 
to end, and the secret died with him. You will look 
through it, won't you? and then we can talk about it." 

Mr. Fairfield turned in my direction as he asked the 
question, Down to this point he had been speaking to 
himself rather than to me. 

" You can see the other end of the tunnel from over 
the ivy yonder," he resumed. 

We walked across the road to the other garden, and 
peered down into another cavernous opening in the 
ground. 

" I'll be bound there were scarlet geraniums in the 
beds on the lawn, but I don't think he noticed them or 
anything else as he went up to the porch. "What he 
saw was some scene in the book. I wonder if there was 
any passer-by who noticed him disappear down those 
steps and come up here, and who knew he was Charles 
Dickens." 

The enthusiast led the way back to the other side of 
the road and took a slow survey of the house and its 
surroundings. I thought this indicated that he had 
come to the end of his outpourings and was about to 
tear himself away. But here I was mistaken ; after a 
pause he resumed his parable. 

"He grew wonderfully fond of this place. The night 

before he wrote that last chapter, he was talking to 

Miss Hogarth about his love for Gadshill, and his wish 

that his name might become more and more associated 

21 



322 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

with it. I believe he was nearly as fond of it as Scott 
was of Abbotsford, and, as every one supposes, Shake- 
speare was of New Place. It's some satisfaction to 
think that each of them died in his own house." 

" Did you ever see him? " 

" No ! And I'm glad I never heard him read. The 
very thought of those readings makes me sick. The 
whole business was deplorable. I don't like to say it 
was degrading ; but that's what it was." 

Mr. Fairfield spoke with so much heat that I stared 
at him in amazement. 

"It killed him for one thing; and, apart from that, 
it was unworthy of him." 

This seemed the last word upon a painful subject ; 
but a moment or two later he burst forth with renewed 
vehemence. He called in Shakespeare to his aid this 
time, and he emphasized his elocution with a clenched 
hand : — 

" Alas, 'tis true, I have gone here and there, 

And made myself a motley to the view. 

Gored mine own thoughts, sold cheap what is most dear, 

Made old offences of affections new — 

I'll be bound John Forster gave him the benefit of that 
more than once ; but it was no good Forster, or any 
one else, trying to turn him when he'd made up his 
mind. His old friend and doctor, Frank Carr Beard, 
remonstrated over and over again — Forster says so." 

" I seem to have dropped a match into a powder 
barrel." 

I had postponed the making of this comment until 
Mr. Fairfield had lighted a fresh cigar, and was staring 
absently into the dusky recesses of one of the cedar 
trees. 

" The volcano is exhausted — for the time being," he 
answered, laughing. " Just before you asked me if I'd 
seen him, I'd been thinking that if it hadn't been for 
the readings, he might have lived for twenty years and 



GADSHILL 323 

finished ' Edwin Drood ' and half a dozen other books. 
Let's go a little way down the lane on the other side, 
and see what we can of the back of the house." 

" Great Jehoshaphat ! " This was Mr. Fairfield's 
ejaculation when we reached the corner and came 
upon a brand-new villa residence, which had hitherto 
escaped his notice. "I wish they'd built this some- 
where else." 

"People must have houses." 

" Oh, yes ! but it's amazing to find this one stuck so 
close to Gadshill Place ; and do you see what it's called 
— Dingley Dell ! It's bad enough to stick the thing 
here at all — and then to give it that name ! It's adding 
insult to injury." 

" It's as bad as writing ' Pickwick ' in some unauthor- 
ized place and putting Moses before it," he went on 
with intense enjoyment. " Do you remember the pass- 
age? — 'not content with writin' up "Pickwick,^' they 
puts Moses afore it, vich I call addin' insult to injury^ 
as the parrot said ven they not only took him from his 
native land, but made him, talk the English langwidge 
arter wards '." 

By the time we had made the best inspection we 
could of the back of Gadshill Place and the paddock in 
rear of it, I was beginning to think that the sooner we 
turned our faces homeward in search of lunch the better. 
But my host had other projects in his mind ! As soon 
as we were back in the high road, he set his face towards 
London. 

" There are two things I must show you," he said. 

" That's the twenty-sixth from London," he pro- 
claimed, when two or three hundred yards beyond the 
house we came upon a milestone. 

" ' Three miles to Rochester — twenty-six miles to 
London,' " he read out as we passed it. 

"I'm not sure I can walk twenty-six miles before 
lunch," I hinted. 

"By jove! we've come past it." Mr. Fairfield was 



324 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

consulting his map and paying no attention to me. 
" I thought it was this side of the milestone." 

We turned and retraced our steps. We had not pro- 
ceeded more than seventy or eighty yards in the direc- 
tion of Gadshill Place, when my companion crossed 
over to a patch of wayside grass upon the south side of 
the road. The highway at this spot ran between two 
coppices, bare and leafless at this season, but showing 
in their colour a promise of the spring. 

" Do you see that ? " he asked, stopping at the dry 
shell of an aged ash tree and pointing to a stone post 
that stood upon the patch of grass some ten paces in 
front of us. " What do you think it is ? " 

" It looks to me like a defaced and superannuated 
milestone," I answered, after a long and conscientious 
scrutiny at close quarters. 

This scrutiny and the precise description which had 
followed upon it were quite to my friend's taste. 

" Now, listen ! " said he, beaming with satisfaction 
as he turned over three or four small printed sheets. 
I had watched him take them out of one of his books 
just before he left the Bull. 

" It's out of the ' Uncommercial Traveller ' paper on 
' Tramps '. This is what he says : — 

"I have my eye upon a piece of Kentish road, bordered on 
either side by a wood, and having on one hand, between the road- 
dust and the trees, a skirting patch of grass. Wild flowers grow in 
abundance on this spot, and it lies high and airy, with a distant 
river stealing steadily away to the ocean, like a man's life. To 
gain the milestone here, which the moss, primroses, violets, blue- 
bells and wild roses, would soon render illegible but for peering 
travellers pushing them aside with their sticks, you must come up 
a steep hill, come which way you may. So, all the tramps with 
carts or caravans — the Gipsy-tramp, the Show-tramp, the Cheap 
Jack — find it impossible to resist the temptations of the place, and 
all turn the horse loose when they come to it, and boil the pot. 
Bless the place, I love the ashes of the vagabond fires that have 
scorched its grass ! 

Any doubt about the place ? " he asked, triumphantly. 



GADSHILL 325 

" I accept it as proved." 

" It was here he met Dr. Marigold, and Chops the 
Dwarf — Forster says so." 

" What is the other thing ? " I asked. 

" That's farther ahead." 

" Three miles to Eochester — twenty-six miles to 
London," said I, as we repassed the official milestone. 
*' Our lunch, I take it, is at Eochester." 

" It's a bad plan to let the mind dwell upon eating and 
drinking," said my host, with an affectation of austerity. 

"Then why let the regular times go by? You're 
bound to think of nothing else when you're hungry." 

" But it isn't lunch time yet." 

" No, but it will be before we get to London." 

My friend laughed. " I won't ask you to try that 
twenty-six miles you're so doubtful about. We're not 
going beyond that house on the right." 

We stopped when we came up to it. It was a way- 
side inn, spick and span with new red brick and rough- 
cast. Its sign was the Duke of York, and on the higher 
storey was a tablet bearing the inscription, " Ye Olde 
Beef Steak House. Eebuilt 1893." There was a 
patch of grass in front with four clipped trees and a 
well. This last was furnished with a windlass. 

" VvTiat do you say those trees are?" my friend de- 
manded. 

" I haven't a notion. If they were in leaf I might 
know." 

" Nonsense ! they're limes — trimmed limes. Surely 
you must see that." 

" I'm quite willing to believe it," I pleaded. 

" Perhaps you'll say you don't know what there is 
under that windlass ? " 

"It looks like a well." 

" Of course, it's a well — now listen ! " This heralded 
another extract from the paper on " Tramps " : — 

"Within appropriate distance of this magic ground ['That's 
the grassy place with the milestone '] though not so near it as that 



326 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

the song trolled from tap or bench at door, can invade its woodland 
silence, is a little hostelry which no man possessed of a penny was 
ever known to pass in warm weather. Before its entrance are 
certain pleasant trimmed limes ; likewise, a cool well, with so 
musical a bucket-handle that its fall upon the bucket rim will make 
a horse prick up his ears and neigh, upon the droughty road half a 
mile off. This is a house of great resort for haymaking tramps and 
harvest tramps, insomuch that they sit within, drinking their mugs 
of beer, their relinquished scythes and reaping-hooks glare out of 
the open windows, as if the whole establishment were a family war- 
coach of Ancient Britons." 

" The place has been rebuilt," I said. 

" Oh, yes ! but the trees are left, and so's the well 
and the bucket-handle." 

" Are these discoveries your own, or did the guide- 
books tell you about them?" 

"I found them out for myself; but for all I know 
they may have been identified by dozens of other people. 
This inn was a sort of landmark in the old coaching 
days. It's called the Half-way House in the road-books." 

" Are we going to Rochester now? " I asked. 

" No, we're going to Cobham. But cheer up ! — if 
you haven't had your lunch by two o'clock, ' call me 
horse'." 

" Ah," said I, recognizing the quotation, " I thought 
I shouldn't get off Gadshill without hearing something 
about Falstaff." 

For a moment my friend looked puzzled. " I forgot 
all about him," he said, as soon as he had grasped my 
meaning. " That phrase was a mere coincidence; and 
yet, oddly enough, Falstaff was talking about Gadshill 
when he used it." 



CHAPTEE XXVI 

IN COBHAM PARK WE LEARN SOMETHING ABOUT 
CHARLES DICKENS 

We retraced our steps towards Kochester for a little 
way beyond the twenty-sixth milestone, and then took 
a turning to the right. Past hedgerows, just bursting 
into leaf, and ditches, starred with celandine, with here 
and there to right or left a bare coppice, that looked 
almost crimson in the sunshine, we made our way 
through Upper Shorne and on to Cobham Park. At 
the gates, a native, of whom we took counsel as to our 
route to the village, and who said he was about to stroll 
in the same direction, volunteered to act as our guide. 
He was a man of some fifty years, with the appearance 
of a well-to-do farmer, but with something in his speech 
and manner that suggested commerce rather than agri- 
culture. 

" Real estate ofdce — or perhaps some sort of mill," 
whispered Mr. Fairfield when our guide had dropped 
behind for a moment to whistle to his dog. 

" A fine country — a very fine country ! " My friend 
said this with quiet fervour ; and he halted to survey 
with an admiring eye the rolling acres of the park and 
the wide prospects beyond it. " Perhaps, sir, you be- 
long to it? " I knew what this diplomacy was to lead 
up to. 

" Lived here all my life." 

" I daresay you remember Charles Dickens." 

" Met him many and many a time when I was a 
boy." 

327 



328 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

" In this park ? " 

" All round about here." 

" Can you remember at all how he looked?" Mr. 
Fairfield put this question with an elaborate carelessness 
that reminded me of the wiles of a cross-examiner. 

" He always had half a dozen big dogs with him." 

This was something, but it was hardly enough to 
enable even an enthusiast to construct a clear mental 
picture of Charles Dickens as he appeared to his country 
neighbours. It was plain from our guide's manner that 
the subject did not appeal to him in any special way, 
but the chance of getting a description from an eye- 
witness was too tempting to be lost. Mr. Fairfield 
thought matters over, and then returned to the attack. 

" You say he had half a dozen dogs with him " 

" So he had." 

This answer was jerked out before the question, 
which the diplomatist was introducing so deftly, could 
be got upon its legs. Mr. Fairfield went straight for 
the mark next time. 

" He was a pretty brisk walker, I believe. I daresay 
you can recall him quite plainly." 

"Just as if I saw him before me. Bless me! — " 
Here our companion paused in his discourse and looked 
about him, as if arranging the form of words which 
would best describe the figure that his mind's eye saw 
so plainly. 

But once again Mr. Fairfield was to be disappointed. 
" He used to be walking just as you and I might be 
walking now," was all that followed. 

In the face of this last discouragement, it seemed 
useless to work the pump-handle any longer, so Charles 
Dickens as a subject for conversation went by the board. 
In the talk that followed, the stranger spoke of the 
smuggling that used to go on in the marshes about 
Gravesend. It was, he said, a common occurrence for 
the smugglers to borrow a farmer's horses without ask- 
ing leave. When in the morning there was a team 



IN COBHAM PARK 329 

missing, the farmer grumbled a bit and did as well as 
he could without it. The horses were certain to be 
brought back, and their temporary loss was looked upon 
as one of the small ills of life for which there was no 
remedy. 

Other local matters were touched upon, and om' ac- 
quaintance happened to mention that he was a Kentish 
Man, as distinguished from a Man of Kent. I paid no 
great attention to the information, which, in response 
to Mr. Fairfield's questions, he poured forth in explana- 
tion of these terms ; but I obtained a vague, general im- 
pression that Eochester Bridge was the dividing line 
between two hostile camps, and that the natives of so 
much of the country as lay east of the river, were the 
Men of Kent and were in the enjoyment of certain 
rights and privileges to which the Kentish Men were 
strangers. My friend's efforts to obtain particulars of 
these franchises interested me very little, for, rightly 
or wrongly, I felt certain that, notwithstanding the 
smouldering cispontine jealousy with which our guide 
referred to them, they had little or no existence outside 
the imagination of a Kentish Man. 

The talk branched off into other topics, but I paid no 
heed to it till a mention of Dickens made me prick up 
my ears. The indomitable Fairfield was making a last 
despairing effort to get some personal details, before he 
lost touch for ever with one who, as a boy, had seen the 
great man many times, and who, sad to say, appeared to 
be wholly unconscious of the privilege that had been his, 

" I suppose everyone about here took a good deal of 
interest in Dickens during his lifetime," was the remark 
that recalled my wandering thoughts. 

Our guide shook his head. " Nobody took any in- 
terest in him." 

" That seems strange," was my friend's amazed 
comment. 

" Bless your soul ! nobody here thought anything at 
all about him." 



330 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

The stranger seemed at a loss to find words strong 
enough to express the indifference with which the 
natives of that part of the country had regarded the 
illustrious sojourner in their midst. 

Mr. James C. Fairfield of Chicago once again sur- 
veyed the rolling acres of the park and the wide pro- 
spects heyond, but there was nothing but scorn and 
contempt in his eye this time. It was not difficult to 
follow the tenor of his thoughts. The countryside was 
good to look upon — that was manifest, and besides, 
Charles Dickens had vouched for it — but if this man 
spoke truth, that countryside was not worthy to be the 
dwelling-place of a Chicago hog. 

" He used to drive two ponies with silver bells," ob- 
served the dweller in Boeotia, wholly unconscious of the 
indignation which he had aroused. 

" Surely they must have been interesting ! " 

The gentle irony of this remark fell harmless, and, to 
my friend's astonishment, our Kentish Man went on to 
make it clear that not only were the silver bells an ob- 
ject of intense interest during Charles Dickens' lifetime, 
but after his death there was a fierce local struggle to 
obtain possession of them. When they were offered 
for sale with the rest of the effects at Gadshill Place, 
the competition was so keen that it ended in a hand-to- 
hand conflict between two bidders, and the lot had to 
be withdrawn. Later on it was sold by private treaty 
to a Rochester contractor named Ball. 

By this time Mr. Fairfield had come to the conclusion 
that Charles Dickens, as regarded by our guide and, 
possibly, the other inhabitants of Shorne, was a subject 
for mirth rather than indignation. He was even desirous 
of keeping up the joke. 

" Dickens has been dead some time now," he re- 
marked vaguely. 

" Five-and-twenty years — he was so poor they had 
to sell all his things off." 

" I hope they realized enough to pay his debts and 
funeral expenses," said I. 



THE SHIP AT COBHAM 331 

" I certainly never heard of any one not being paid," 
was the answer, given somewhat grudgingly, but in 
perfect good faith. 

" Do you understand this? " asked my friend as soon 
as the man had disappeared and we had had our laugh 
out. " He seemed quite intelligent in other respects ; 
what he said about the old trees in the Pilgrims' Way 
was well worth noting." 

" It's a sort of local patriotism. The man's family 
has been on the soil here for generations, and he resents 
the suggestion that Charles Dickens, or any other mere 
resident, should be thought of any importance." 

" If that's so, it's a pity I didn't mention that Dickens 
was a friend of Lord Darnley and had keys to the Park 
gates. Authorship seems to want a deal of shoring up 
in this country before it looks respectable. The abori- 
gines of the Isle of Wight thought nothing of Tenny- 
son until they heard that the Prince Consort had called 
upon him; and when some one asked a Haslemere 
native about him, the answer was, that Mr. Tennyson 
only kept one man and he didn't sleep in the house." 

We found our way from the park wicket to Cobham 
village, and entered the first inn we came to. This 
was the Ship. As the public rooms on the first floor 
were being prepared for the influx of Eastertide custom, 
the landlord courteously ushered us through the bar 
into a low-browed inner room, which looked out upon a 
small meadow. 

" I like this hospitable way of doing business," said 
Mr. Fairfield as he surveyed the meal of bread, cheese, 
and butter that had been spread before us. " The good 
old custom of letting the guest cut for himself seems 
dying out in England." 

" We must try and prove ourselves worthy of our 
host's confidence," said I, attacking the cheese. 

" Innkeepers exercise a discretion in these matters. 
They go by a person's appearance. This profuse display 
is really a personal compliment to you and me." 

" They know when they're safe," he continued. " I 



332 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

remember years ago lunching at an inn near Sydenham. 
They brought me the joint of cold beef. After I had 
finished, a bagman-looking fellow came in, and I noticed 
they cut off a portion for him. They saw they could 
trust me to eat in moderation and not to mangle the joint, 
and they couldn't trust him. I've never forgotten it." 
He finished this anecdote with a self-complacency that 
was positively unctuous. 

"You're sure you did eat in moderation? " I asked, 
doubtfully. 

" I don't remember anything about it; but no doubt 
I did." 

" If that was so, wasn't it rather odd they didn't let 
the next man have the joint ? It looks to me as if you 
had destroyed their confidence." 

Mr. Fairfield considered this suggestion as he munched 
his bread and cheese. 

" I don't like the construction you put upon the 
facts," he said, laughing. " I wonder if we may smoke 
in here. It isn't a public room, but I think I'll venture 
to step into the bar and ask the landlord." 

This permission was readily given, and my friend 
settled himself in a big chair with a high-railed back 
and produced his cigar-case. 

" This is very comfortable," said he. " I'm not sorry 
to get a rest ; we're in luck to have a place like this all 
to ourselves." 

" Do many people come to Cobham? " 

"Oh, yes! There's a lot about the place in the 
books on Dickens-land. People come here in swarms 
— my countrymen in particular. Why, they " 

At this moment the landlord made his appearance 
bearing a bright brass spittoon, which he placed in the 
immediate neighbourhood of Mr. Fairfield's right foot. 
" There's another in the corner, sir ! " he said, with 
much geniality as he paused for a moment at the open 
door. This intimation was intended for my benefit, 
but it was addressed to the big chair. 



THE SHIP AT COBHAM 333 

" Here it is ! " said I, steering the article into posi- 
tion with my foot. 

Mr. Fairfield sat bolt upright with a matchbox in 
one hand and an unlighted cigar in the other. His gaze 
wandered from the brass on his right to the hardware 
on his left, and the expression of his featm'es was more 
thoughtful than before. As he seemed to have for- 
gotten his unfinished sentence, I deemed it well to jog 
his memory. 

" You were saying," I remarked, " that your country- 
men were well known here." 

" I am quite aware of what I was saying," he 
began with some tartness ; but as he spoke his eye 
fell again on the two spittoons, and for once his sense of 
humour got the better of his patriotism. 

"Confound the things!" he said, laughing as he 
thrust them out of sight. " If that landlord keeps a 
visitors' book, I shall sign it in the character of Hanni- 
bal Chollop." 



CHAPTEE XXVII 

WE VISIT MINOR CANON ROW, AND RAMBLE TO 
COOLING 

EocHESTEE nowadays is not nearly such a sleepy place 
as the Cloisterham or Dullborough Town of Charles 
Dickens. The High Street is, in fact, a fairly bustling 
thoroughfare ; but whoso turns out of it, by the College 
Gateway, leaves the twentieth century behind him, 
and breathes an atmosphere of early-Georgian repose. 
There are mediaeval relics in plenty — a grey, old cathe- 
dral, a Norman keep and piles of crumbling masonry — 
but these are only background ; it is a scattered region 
of burial places, grass-grown and long disused, of mellow 
red-brick houses, tiled roofs, green turf and immemorial 
elms. 

It was on our return from Cobham that Mr. Fairfield 
led me into the cathedral precincts. We had left the 
village after sauntering as far as the Leather Bottle 
and taking a turn round the churchyard, and had made 
our way back to Strood by the old Eoman highway. 

" This is a real Dickens-land," he said as we passed 
under the gateway. " He wished to be buried here. 
I want to show you Minor Canon Corner, where Mr. 
Crisparkle lived." 

Through the College gateway, past the parish church 
of St. Nicholas and between the cathedral burial-ground 
that is called Green-Church Haw, and the old parish 
burial-ground, we made our way to the west door of the 
cathedral ; pausing between the church and Green- 
Church Haw, to look at the ruins of Gundulf's tower, 

334 



MINOR CANON ROW 335 

and striking off to the left for a moment, to get a nearer 
view of the Deanery Gate and peep through it at the 
Deanery elms. Skirting the west side of the cathedral 
and following the roadway past a huge fragment of 
battlemented stonework, now serving as the frame of a 
modern door, we came upon Minor Canon Eow — 
seven red-brick houses, flanked on the west by the 
Priory Gate, all basking in the sunshine of a heavenly 
afternoon. 

" This, I take it, is where the south wall of the Priory 
used to stand ; what do you think of the place ? " 

"I am almost inclined to wish I was a Minor-canon," 
was my answer. 

" The house furthest from the gateway is, or was, the 
organist's. It was built ten or twelve years later than 
the others ; they were built about 1722. I got that 
out of the ' History and Antiquities of Rochester ' — 
Wildash's edition of 1817. I routed it out at the 
British Museum. And I think I made a little dis- 
covery." 

Here Mr. Fairfield took off his pince-nez and looked 
up from the scrap of manuscript which he had been 
consulting. 

" What was it ? " I asked, well knowing that this was 
his way of inviting the question. 

" It's nothing much, but it pleased me. When I 
was skimming through the account of ancient Eochester, 
I was once or twice vaguely reminded of what Dickens 
says about the place at the beginning of the third chap- 
ter of ' Edwin Drood,' and before I put the book back I 
happened to tiu:n to the list of subscribers at the be- 
ginning. Lo and behold ! I found the name of Mr. 
John Dickens, Chatham. That was Dickens' father. 
Now, I think it's almost certain that Dickens read the 
book when he was a boy. He was only five in 1817, 
but we know he browsed about among his father's books 
before he was nine, and I don't suppose there were so 
many of them that he would be likely to overlook 



336 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

"Wildash. My theory is, that the impression the book 
made on him as a child remained there fifty years later, 
when he was writing ' Edwin Drood'." 

" But he must have read many other books about 
Rochester; and he may have come across Wildash 
again, years and years after he grew up." 

" Oh, yes, he may ! But my maxim is — if a theory 
pleases you, stick to it, so long as it doesn't clash with 
facts." 

"If it pleases you, why not stick to it through thick 
and thin ? " 

" That's immoral — facts are facts," answered Mr. 
Fairfield, loftily. " A man must preserve the captaincy 
of his soul." 

" There's an earlier edition of the book," he resumed, 
as he began to fumble with his memoranda ; " Forster 
knew that edition. He quotes from it in his chapter on 
Gadshill Place, but he doesn't say where the quotation 
comes from. He speaks of ' a history of Rochester, 
published a hundred years ago ' ; the actual date is 1772. 
It was written, according to Wildash's preface to the 
second edition, by an Archdeacon of Rochester — a 
Doctor Denne. It's a capital book, and it has a capital 
motto on the title-page — As the knowledge of ancient 
things is pleasant, so is the ignorance as shameful, and 
oftentimes exposes Tnen to the scorn and contempt of 
strangers — that's out of the preface to Somner's 'Anti- 
quities of Canterbury'." 

"I'll try and bear it in mind," said I. 

We passed under the Priory Gate and into the road 
that skirts the gardens of Minor Canon Row. The 
seven old houses are much more picturesque when seen 
from the back, for on that side the view is more spa- 
cious and there is no curtain of brickwork to hide their 
peaked, red roofs. 

" The best rooms must be at the back," said my 
guide, meditatively. " The look-out in front from the 
lower windows is nothing to boast of. Yes, sir, it was 



4^ 




MINOR CANON ROW 337 

in one of the back rooms that Mr. Crisparkle and the 
China Shepherdess used to breakfast." 

" Now you've seen this place," he went on, " you 
must let me read you Dickens' description of it. He 
calls it Minor Canon Corner : — 

" They were a good pair to sit breakfasting together in Minor 
Canon Comer, Cloisterham. For Minor Canon Comer was a quiet 
place in the shadow of the cathedral, which the cawing of the rooks, 
the echoing footsteps of rare passers, the sound of the Cathedral 
bell or the roll of the Cathedral organ, seemed to render more 
quiet than absolute silence. Swaggering fighting men had had their 
centuries of ramping and raving about Minor Canon Corner, and 
beaten serfs had had their centuries of drudging and dying there, 
and powerful monks had had their centuries of being sometimes 
useful and sometimes harmful there, and behold they were all gone 
out of Minor Canon Comer, and so much the better. Perhaps one 
of the highest uses of their ever having been there was, that there 
might be left behind, that blessed air of tranquillity which per- 
vaded Minor Canon Comer, and that serenely romantic state of 
mind — productive for the most part of pity and forbearance — 
which is engendered by a sorrowful story that is all told, or a 
pathetic play that is played out. 

"Red-brick walls harmoniously toned down in colour by time, 
strong-rooted ivy, latticed windows, panelled rooms, big oaken 
beams in little places, and stone-walled gardens where annual fruit 
yet ripened upon monkish trees, were the principal surroundings 
of pretty old Mrs. Crisparkle and the Reverend Septimus as they 
sat at breakfast. 

Isn't it wonderful how he's given us the very essence 
of the place? " 

" Do you know much about the bishops of Ro- 
chester?" My friend was gazing over the peaked 
roofs at the tower of the Cathedral beyond them. To 
our left was the Priory Gate, and not far from it the 
towering majesty of the Keep. 

" I know nothing about them — or any other bishops." 
" Only two of them are worth remembering — Sprat 
and Atterbury," he remarked, critically; "and, oddly 
enough, one succeeded the other. Sprat figures in 
Johnson's ' Lives,' and Atterbury we get a glimpse of 
in ' Esmond '." 
22 



338 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

" You've an odd notion of what makes a bishop 
worth remembering." 

" Atterbm-y really was an interesting person — he 
officiated at Addison's funeral for one thing, and he 
had a father who ought to have been an archbishop." 

" I never heard of the old gentleman." 

" The pity is we know so little of him. When the 
bishop was a young curate, his prospects weren't very 
rosy. I suppose this depressed him, and he went for 
comfort to his sire. ' You have only to put your trust 
in God and marry a bishop's daughter,' said the good 
old man. He was a rector in Buckinghamshire. 
There's a description of Sprat in that book on Eoch- 
ester — but I mustn't shock you." 

"I think I can stand it," I said, laughing. 

" It says — 'His parts were very bright in his youth, 
and gave good hopes, but were blasted by a lazy liber- 
tine course to which his temper and good nature carried 
him, without considering the duties, or even the decen- 
cies, of his profession '." 

" Perhaps it isn't true," I suggested. 

" True or false," said Mr. Fairfield, solemnly, " it 
was written by a brother bishop. On which horn of 
the dilemma will you seat yourself? " 

" It's shaken my faith in all those old-time bishops 
of yours," he went on; "I can't trust any of them, 
not even dear ' old man Seabury '. I'm beginning to 
doubt whether it was right to stick him up in Shake- 
speare's church. He may have been no better than 
Sprat — only artfuller. And as for their clergy — dear ! 
dear ! " 

" And what was amiss with them — the Eev. Abraham 
Adams and Dr. Primrose, for instance? " 

"I don't like the look of these back doors," he an- 
swered, gloomily ; " they positively stare you in the 
face." 

" That's so ; but what have they to do with it ? " 

" They make me feel uneasy in my mind. These 



MINOR CANON ROW 339 

houses were built a few years after Sprat's time, and 
it's occurred to me that his influence on this place must 
have been very evil. I'm very much afraid these back 
doors were put in, so that the minor canons could sneak 
out under cover of night and disport themselves with- 
out considering the duties or even the decencies of their 
profession." 

" I don't quite see where they could have gone to." 

" Chatham, of course — there are plenty of singing 
and dancing places there." 

The existence of these places was so probable, and 
Mr. Fairfield spoke with so much conviction, that this 
remark gave a stamp of reality to all that had gone be- 
fore. I was quite ready to chop nonsense with him. 

" Isn't it a pity to rake up such a very old scandal? " 
I urged. " Do you suppose the organist in the end 
house went with them ? " 

"More than likely! If not, think what a terror 
that back door of his must have been to the minor 
canons ; he could pounce out upon them at any mo- 
ment." 

Mr. Fairfield paused to consider the probabilities of 
the case, and then gave up the organist as a bad job. 

" I'm afraid he didn't take much persuading," he re- 
sumed, mournfully. " He was a musician, and musi- 
cians as a class are a bit Bohemian." 

" He must have come in very handy when the sing- 
ing and dancing began." 

My companion pursed up his mouth and stared hard 
at the most easterly of the back doors. 

" He could hardly have taken his instrument with him, 
even if the minor canons lent a hand," he said, slowly. 

" I was not suggesting that he took the cathedral 
organ. That would have been sacrilege. I was assum- 
ing that he was musician enough to be master of a 
second instrument — the fiddle, for instance." 

" No doubt ! no doubt ! And if that was so, you may 
bet your boots they didn't leave him behind." 



340 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

" There is really nothing to laugh at." I put in this 
reminder because my friend's austerity seemed to be 
giving way to inward merriment. 

" You mustn't be too hard on the organist. I can 
make excuses for Mm — always supposing he didn't take 
that organ with him." 

" You think he could plead that his calling had blunted 
his moral sense ? " I suggested. 

" Certainly ! But I'm with you as regards the minor 
canons ; their case was different. " 

" One hopes they met with their deserts," said my 
friend, in a tone which showed that he did not hope 
anything of the kind ; " but my view is. Sprat was most 
to blame. ' The evil that men do lives after them.' " 

" It's chillyish standing here," he said, presently ; "let 
us stroll to the Vines. The^re just behind us on the 
right. It's an open space now ; it used to be the vine- 
yard of the priory. Dickens calls it the Monks' Vineyard. 
It was there Her Royal Highness the Princess Puffer 
warned Edwin Drood that there was trouble brewing 
for a man named Ned. And we can have a look at 
Eestoration House," he added, as we moved onward. 

After dinner that evening I took up " Edwin Drood," 
and my friend busied himself with pencil and paper. 
I could see that he was making a plan of some sort ; 
and as every now and then he seemed to get stuck, 
and these pauses were always followed by his gliding 
from the room, paper in hand, I was not in much doubt 
as to the exact nature of his employment. 

" It's a tough job," said he, when I looked up and 
his eye caught mine ; " I couldn't have believed that 
any place could be so rambling as this house is. It's 
only this first floor that I'm trying to lay down. Do 
you know what the route is from the corridor to this 
room ? " 

" All I know is we pass over the gateway. I'm sure 
of that, because we go into the hotel on the left side, 
and these windows are on the other side." 

" Well, this is the route — Strike off to left of corridor 



TO COOLING 341 

— one step up — cross recess — one step down — straight 
on — that's really over the gateway, I suppose — four 
steps down — pass No. 17, Dickens' rooTu, on left — 
straight on — four steps up to this door. That's pretty 
good for steps, considering we're a first floor room, look- 
ing out on the street. And just past our door there are 
six more steps to go up." 

When I came down to breakfast next morning I 
found my host poring over his map. " Great Expecta- 
tions " lay open by his side. 

" I should very much like to get to Cooling, if we 
could manage it," he said. 

" Not Chatham dockyard ? " 

Mr. Fairfield closed one eye. " I think I know what 
that meant. I thought it out afterwards. Do you 
mind going to Cooling ? It's the place where Pip was 
brought up. It was in the churchyard that the convict 
sat him on the gravestone. The tombstones of Pip's 
little brothers are there. He speaks of only six. For- 
ster says there are double that number. It's a very 
lonely place out on the marshes." 

" By all means let us go. How far is it ? " 

" It's under five miles — as the crow flies." There 
was an ambiguity about this which confirmed an im- 
pression which I had already formed from Mr. Fair- 
field's manner. It was quite clear that for some reason 
or other a pilgrimage to Cooling was no trifle. 

" Here are we," he went on, turning the map in my 
direction and pointing to it with a pencil, "and here's 
Cooling." 

True it was that the place was only five miles north 
of us ; but when I attempted to trace the way my head 
swam. The main roads avoided Cooling altogether, 
and all the cross roads seemed to strike off to the right 
or left, or to stop short some distance to the south. 

"It does look awkward," was my friend's admission 
as he noted my despair; " but I've got a penny cyclist's 
guide upstairs, and that gives a very good route. I'm 



342 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

sure we can follow it quite easily; it's only seven and 
a half miles." 

We knew the way to Strood, and, aided by the ord- 
nance map, we reached Frindsbury without difficulty. 
There, however, the penny guide-book came into play, 
and from the moment we obeyed the first of its direc- 
tions we were hopelessly lost. For a while my fellow- 
wanderer refused to be persuaded that there was any- 
thing amiss, but at last he was obliged to admit that we 
had gone astray; and he jerked the book into a side 
pocket with a muttered comment that sounded not 
unlike an imprecation. 

At a village which we came upon, we ascertained 
that we were at Wainscot ; and when by the light of 
this information we had been able to ascertain our 
bearings from Mr. Fairfield's map, we decided that the 
sooner we obtained some oral guidance the better. 

A native who was repairing a cart by the road-side 
advised us to retrace our steps in order to gain some 
turning that led northward ; but, alas ! his information 
as to the distance to this cross-road was very vague, 
and the map offered us no corroboration of his state- 
ments. 

" Isn't there a footpath ? " inquired Mr. Fairfield. 

The answer to this question suggested that Wainscot 
stood badly in need of a village Hampden — the footpaths 
were all closed by government. 

"But can't we get there this way? " 

After gazing at the road ahead of us, to which the 
speaker was pointing, and thinking matters over, the 
native admitted that this was possible. On being 
pressed, he went further and intimated that, perhaps, 
it was the best way after all. Then he began to give 
directions. Of these, I could make neither head nor 
tail, though several times I caught the words "four- 
went way," repeated like a burden or refrain, and " Hoo 
Mill" always followed close upon them. At the first 
pause, Mr. Fairfield, who had been listening with his 



HIGH HALSTOW 343 

eyes fixed on the map, thanked the man and declared 
that the course was quite plain. 

" I found Hoo Mill," he explained, as soon as we 
were out of earshot. "We come to four cross-roads 
about a mile further on, and then take the one to the 
left." 

" A somewhat thick-headed gentleman," I observed. 

My friend laughed. " A buffle-headed fellow ; but I 
liked that ' four-went way '. He was referring to the 
cross-roads. I must make a note of that. I trust 
there's some footpath near the mill. We're east of 
Cooling as it is ; and every step we take in this direction 
leads us further past it." 

" This is the road to Hoo," he remarked a little later. 
" Hogarth and his friends came along here. But we 
turn off a good bit on this side of the village." 

Before we reached the mill, we ascertained at a way- 
side inn there was no footpath to Cooling, and that 
our only way was through High Halstow. When I 
looked at the map I groaned in spirit. We had been 
on our legs for more than two hours ; High Halstow 
was nearly three miles to the north-east of us, and 
Cooling lay some two miles to the west of High Hal- 
stow. 

" I am afraid it must be on a hill," said Mr. Fairfield 
who was even wearier than I was. The wind that day 
was very strong, and for a long time we had been walk- 
ing straight in the teeth of it. 

High Halstow was indeed set on a hill : a hill that we 
climbed slowly and painfully. All the way up our eyes 
were fixed upon the church ; for that marked the summit, 
and when we reached it we made straight for the porch. 
Thankful were we to find a seat there, as well as a 
shelter from the wind. 

" Thames or Medway ? " I asked, after we had rested 
ourselves for a while in great content. The porch com- 
manded a wide expanse of country, stretching away to a 
broad river far in front of us. 



344 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

" Medway ; Sheerness lies somewhere over there." 

He had looked at the map before answering, and he 
continued to pore over it for some minutes. 

" Anxious times here in June, 1667, when the Dutch 
got past Sheerness and sailed nearly to Chatham," he 
said at length. " They burned or took all the English 
ships that came in their way, until they drew off at the 
approach of Prince Bupert. I guess he found some of 
his old soldiers eager to serve under him again, when he 
came into these parts. Wherever Bupert went, he 
must have come across plenty such." 

" There must have been many watchers on this hill," 
resumed Mr. Fairfield. " They got a good view of the 
Dutchmen." 

We both sat silent for some time and gazed at the 
distant river. Truly, the watchers from High Halstow 
must have had a good view of De Euyter's tall ships, as 
they made their way up stream. 

" Dryden tells us," said my friend, " that the cannon- 
ading was heard in London — the sound was like distant 
thunder, or the noise of swallows in a chimney, he says. 
Fireships were used to the best of my recollection. The 
river must have been an awful sight from here to an 
Englishman who loved his country. It was known all 
about that the Dutch were carrying everything before 
them ; Pepys found at Gravesend that the people had 
removed their goods for fear of the place being occupied. 
Yes, sir, it looked as if the old country was going under 
that time — 

The mighty ghosts of our great Harries rose, 
And armed Edwards looked with anxious eyes. 

That's Dryden : he wrote it the year before — the annus 
mirahilis — but the Dutch inspired it. Magnificent 
lines ; aren't they ? The conception's so fine — the 
warrior kings rising from their graves to watch the 
battle — and did you ever come across anything more 
subtle than that double-barrelled alliteration in the 



" EDWIN DROOD " 345 

second line ? I don't know another to match it ; I'm not 
sure that I know another at all." 

" Do you actually read Dry den ? " 

" I've read nearly every word of him ; but that means 
turning yourself into a sort of literary mud-lark. Just 
you get Johnson's ' Lives ' and Lowell's ' My Study 
Windows '. Johnson's 'Life ' of him is splendid, and 
Lowell's essay is even better. It's glorious ! " 

" You looked through ' Edwin Drood ' last night," 
he said, when we had left the porch, and were making 
our way westward, with the Thames in full view across 
the marshlands on our right, and on the same low level, 
a hamlet or two, and a church that stood out from 
everything else. 

" Yes — full steam ahead most of the time ; but when- 
ever I came upon anything that looked like a clue to 
the mystery, I slowed down and took soundings." 

" That was just what I wanted; it was very good of 
you. I noticed you were doing some marking with a 
pencil now and then." 

" I got a bit bitten, myself, to tell the truth." 

" And how did Jasper murder him ? " 

" I suppose he strangled him with the silk scarf he 
wore that Christmas Eve. It was quick and painless — 
Jasper's mutterings in the opium den prove that." 

" Good ! And where was it done ? " 

" Somewhere in the cathedral, I suppose ; but where, 
I don't quite know. But if not there, why did Jasper 
get Durdles to take him there that night, so that he 
could drug him and get the keys ? " 

" Good again ! " By this time Mr. Fairfield, who had 
started from the porch with weary limbs, which worked 
like machinery in want of oiling, had shaken off all 
symptoms of fatigue, and was boiling over with enthu- 
siasm. " You don't think the falling of the stones 
and the tearing off of the clock hands that night, 
had anything to do with the murder ? " he asked 
eagerly. 



346 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

" No ; it's incredible that the man was throv/n down 
from the tower." 

" I agree ! And where was the Hme that ate np the 
body and left nothing but the ring behind? " 

" That baffles me." 

" And me too; I did so hope that yon would strike 
out something." 

" There's no getting at it. One thought at first it 
was the lime in Durdles' yard, which is mentioned just 
before the mysterious visit to the cathedral that night ; 
but Jasper said in his mutterings that he had done the 
thing in his dreams many times beforehand, and always 
in the same way." 

'* True ; but couldn't the lime have been in the 
crypt?" 

" If so, why did Jasper leave the cathedral after he'd 
drugged Durdles and got his keys ? " 

" You're sure he did leave it? " 

" If not, why was he so furious when he found De- 
puty in the Close, when he and Durdles turned out of 
the cathedral ? He thought the boy had been spying 
on him; and that couldn't have been if Jasper had 
stayed inside all the time. And yet it's hard to believe 
that Dickens meant him to carry the body through the 
streets. It seems absurd." 

" You give it up, then ? " 

"Yes! Don't you?" 

Mr, Fairfield's answer was a deep sigh. " I've given 
it up over and over again ; but whenever I take the 
book up afresh I begin to puzzle my brains over it." 

" It's a pity you took it up, then." 

" But I rather think I like to puzzle over it," he an- 
swered, laughing. " It's not fair to bother you with 
it ; but there's just one other point — can you imagine 
how the unwritten half of the book was to be filled up ? 
There seems so little left of the story to fill six more 
numbers." 

" That occurred to me. I'm not at all sure we weren't 



AT COOLING 347 

to hear something more about ' The Thorn of Anxiety '. 
Bazzard's tragedy wasn't mentioned for nothing ; per- 
haps we were to have some theatrical sketches." 

" If they were to have been anything Hke Mr. Wopsle's 
' Hamlet,' it's a thousand pities we lost them. You 
don't feel any doubt that Bazzard was Datchery ? " 

" I suppose he must have been ; but there's such a 
difference between Bazzard and Datchery that I think 
Dickens intended to develop Bazzard into something 
important, and this would have explained the inconsis- 
tency. Bazzard may have been as different out of 
office hours as Wemmick was. And I'm not sure that 
the Billickin wasn't intended to help in the plot. She 
was a cousin of Bazzard's, remember ! " 

My friend's enthusiasm had died down before we 
reached Cooling. It was almost in silence that we ac- 
complished the last weary mile of our pilgrimage. Act- 
ing upon the advice of a native, we were cutting off a 
corner by taking a field path, when I saw an inn on 
the high road, a little way off to our right. 

" We'll lunch before going further; we can see the 
churchyard afterwards," I said, as I turned off into a 
track that led to the back door. 

" Certainly ; by all means ; I really am quite tired," 
was the meek response. For once in his life, Mr. James 
C. Fairfield of Chicago was only too glad to pause in 
the course of a ramble, with the thing sought for yet 
unseen. 

" It's a bad business this getting near the sixties," he 
said, mournfully, as we sat in the bar parlour of the 
Horseshoe and Castle and consumed bread and cheese. 

" It's a bad business to be misled by a penny guide- 
book ; we must have come at least ten miles against 
wind and over hilly country. I'm abominably tired 
myself." 

" You'd think nothing of it, old boy ! " This remark 
was addressed to the inn dog, who had come in and 
made himself most agreeable, and who now lay by the 



348 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

j&replace, and was startling us at short intervals by a 
sharp, friendly bark, followed by a thumping of his tail 
upon the floor. 

"I do like this dropping into little hostelries, and 
taking your ease for as long as ever you like. It seems, 
somehow, to bring one back to the leisurely, hospitable 
England of Fielding and Smollett," 

By this time Mr. Fairfield was snugly established in 
a corner chair with his feet supported upon another chair, 
and a cigar was in full blast. 

" Dickens must have known this inn well. I suppose 
he had it in mind when he described the scenes in the 
Three Jolly Bargemen, though he wasn't at all photo- 
graphic when he was dealing with this place in ' Great 
Expectations'. " 

" He may have been in this very room," I suggested. 

" If ever Dickens was here," he said laughing, as he 
scrutinized an engraving that hung near his chair, " he 
must have delighted in this. It's the portrait of the 
Eight Honourable William, Baron Panmure of Brechin 
and Navar, cetat sixty-seven." 

I crossed over and looked at it. The right honourable 
baron sat in a well-padded chair and grasped a snuff-box. 
The lower part of his countenance was so magnificently 
developed, that it threw the upper part into insignifi- 
cance. 

" A fine old English gentleman ! " said I, approvingly ; 
" Dickens' heau ideal of a member of the Upper House, 
advanced in years." 

" He certainly did not love a lord, and perhaps he was 
not always fair to the tribe ; but now I can make excuses 
for him. How I wish I could hang this among my 
Dickens things, as a sample of the British noblemen 
who were his contemporaries." 

When we paid our bill — it amounted, I think, to 
eightpence, including drinks — we asked the landlord 
for directions as to the shortest way back to Rochester. 
Mine host and a friend, who was seated on a bench 



AT COOLING 349 

against the wall, showed so much surprise when Mr. 
Fairfield began to make a note of the answer, that I 
thought it advisable to explain what our warderings had 
been that morning. The fact that we had come to 
Cooling by way of High Halstow, excited no httle 
mirth in the landlord and his crony, but my confidences 
had the desired effect ; Mr. Fairfield was able to jot down 
the particulars of a route, so clear in its elaboration and 
so full of landmarks, that we both felt confident that to 
go astray would be impossible. 

" This is something like," said the scribe complacently, 
as we stood in the road and he scanned his memoran- 
dum ; " intelligent man that. A pity he isn't older ! I 
rather hoped to learn something here, but he wasn't 
born in 1870." 

" It's a bad business that so many of the inhabitants 
of this district aren't getting near the sixties," I sug- 
gested. " Under that, they are mere cumberers of the 
ground." 

" It's ungrateful to say so when they're so useful for 
telling you the way," he retorted, with an air of grave 
rebuke. " By-the-bye, these marshes don't look very 
desolate. I suppose the sunshine makes a difference." 

" Are we to perambulate them ? " 

Mr. Fairfield surveyed the long green stretches dotted 
with cattle, that lay between us and the distant river, 
and shook his head. 

" I'll go, if you insist on it," he answered laughing ; 
" but I warn you I may be tempted to follow Mr, 
Wopsle's example. He got very tired, you may re- 
member, when they came back over these marshes after 
finding the convicts, and he insisted on sitting down in 
the damp to such an insane extent, that when his coat 
was taken off to be dried at the kitchen fire, the circum- 
stantial evidence of his trousers would have hanged him, 
if sitting down had been a capital offence. Joe carried 
Pip on his back." 

" I remember he did ; it was good of him, but you 



350 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

mustn't count on my being able to do anything of the 
same sort." 

" Perhaps under the circumstances, we had better 
make for the church ; it's quite close — in the book it's 
a mile from the village." 

Even Mr. Fairfield admitted that the churchyard on 
the marshes was something of a disappointment. As 
we saw it, that cold spring afternoon, it had little in 
common with the desolate, nettle-grown churchyard of 
" Great Expectations " ; for the green landscape beyond 
the wall was pleasant to look upon, and the place itself 
was in good order. And, worst of all in my companion's 
eyes, the King's highway ran along one side of it. 

Near the porch we found the graves of the Comport 
family — thirteen little mummy-shaped tombstones, lying 
in two ranks — three in front and ten in rear — with the 
parental tombstone standing upright between them. 
My companion stooped down and plucked some butter- 
cup leaves from beside one of the little graves. 

" I'm disappointed in the look of the place," he said ; 
^' but after all, we see it as he saw it ; and we're stand- 
ing where he stood many and many a time. He was 
fond of bringing people here. Forster says it was one 
of his favourite walks in autumn or winter, when 
he could get to it across the stubble fields." 

" I wish we could get back to Bochester by the same 

way." 

"So do I, most devoutly ; but I'm glad we came. 
I've always wanted to see Cooling churchyard." 

" And after all," he said, smiling, as we turned away 
from the Comport graves, shivering in the icy blast 
that was blowing across the marshes that afternoon, 
" there's one thing here that doesn't fall short of one's 
expectations — a more abominable wind never chilled my 
marrow." 



« A SCORE O' YEARS AGO " 351 

POSTSCRIPT 
A SCORE O' YEARS AGO 

{Rochester, 1667.) 

The Dutchmen ride on Chatham tide ; they've burst the river boom ; 
He's master here, the Furrineer, and all the folks in gloom : 
There's naught, they vow, to stop him now from laying London low, 
But you and I were Rupert's men a score o' years ago. 
So polish up the old steel cap and dress the bandoleer ! 
There's little time to trim and prime with Rupert drawing near, 
And aught amiss in wind or limb we mustn't let him know. 
For Rupert's all that Rupert was a score o' years ago. 

He's spurring down from Windsor town, and soon we'll have him 

here ; 
He's riding hard, with flag and guard and trumpets, all in rear ; 
And when we greet him soldierwise, he'll look us through and 

through. 
And answer each in soldier speech, a prince and comrade too : 
There's records in those eyes of his, as records well may be : 
The wear and tear of time and care, and war on land and sea ; 
But how they flash and sparkle too, for all the lines they show, 
And Rupert rides as Rupert rode a score o' years ago ! 

It's do or die with Rupert by ; he'll rouse the lazy ones ; 
He'll sound a call to hearten all that man the Upnor guns : 
We'll hear his music once again, and well the Dutchmen know 
There's something more than schnaps in store when Rupert's 

trumpets blow. 
De Ruyter, he's a cockrel too, but if he tries a main, 
He'll see St. Paul's and prison walls before he fights again ; 
He'll make his way to London Tower with all his ships in tow, 
For Rupert fights as Rupert fought a score o' years ago. 



CHAPTEE XXVIII 

COBHAM WOODS AND EASTGATE HOUSE 

" Have you noticed the seaweed over there, cUnging to 
the stonework, by the baths, just as it's mentioned in 
' Pickwick ' ? You can see it better from the Esplan- 
ade." 

It was on Eochester bridge that Mr. Fairfield asked 
this question. We were on our way to Cobham, through 
the woods, and we had paused to watch the little 
billows sparkling in the sunshine. There was a fresh 
breeze blowing, but there was no bite in it that perfect 
spring morning. 

Thanks to the map it was easy to find a way to Cob- 
ham woods. Within a few minutes of our turning out 
of the main street at Strood, we were crossing a field 
where the young corn was springing. To the right and 
left of us, the tiny shoots were just visible above the 
brown earth, which, for all their presence, looked as 
brown as in the sowing time ; but on the uplands close 
at hand, the sunshine was resting upon a fresh young 
green that clothed them as with a garment. 

My fellow-pilgrim loitered in the footpath and followed 
with his eye the swell of the land, where the brown 
melted imperceptibly into the green. The chaffinches 
were flying about the hedgerows, and the air was musical 
with the song of the lark. 

"I'm almost ashamed to confess that this is the first 
time I've noticed the ' mantle slowly greening in the 
sun,' " he said. " That's Tennyson — it's a lovely poem 

352 



COBHAM WOODS 353 

* The Progress of Spring,' and I'm particularly fond of 
the last part of the opening verse — 

Come^ Springs for now from all the dripping leaves 

The spear of ice has wept itself away, 
And hour by hour, unfolding woodbine leaves, 

O'er his uncertain shadow droops the day. 
She comes ! The loosen' d rivulets run ; 

The frost-bead melts upon her golden hair ; 
Her mantle, slowly greening in the Sun, 

Now wraps her close, now arching leaves her bare 

To breaths of balmier air. 

As one gets on in years, every Spring seems more 
lovely than the last," he went on; "and one does so 
long for it to come, too." 

" And yet the poets associate it with youth." 
" Yes, and young love! That's right enough in a 
way. The springtime smells of youthfulness all our 
lives long — and no wonder ; for after all, it's Nature re- 
newing her youth. When we're young, we associate it 
with some young person of the opposite sex, and when 
we're older we associate it, somehow, with our own lost 
youth. I've often thought there's something pathetic 
in our longing for it so — we oldsters. 

Come, Spring ! She comes on waste and wood, 
On farm and field ; but enter also here. 

Diffuse thyself at will thro' all thy blood. 
And tho' thy violet sicken into sere. 
Lodge with me all the year ! " 

" There's not so much about it in the later poets, 
is there?" 

"Perhaps not, except in Tennyson. He's as mad 
about it as the Elizabethans were, and it's more won- 
derful in his case." 

"Why?" 

" The winter was a duller time with them than it is 
with us — more trying too ; and their working hours were 
so different. Think at what an unearthly time every- 
one got up in the morning ; and think what miserable 
23 



354 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

lighting they had in their homes, and how abominable 
their roads were ! You can't wonder that they bubbled 
over a bit when Spring came. You read that song at 
the end of 'Love's Labour 's Lost,' which begins 'When 
icicles hang by the wall,' and then read that song of 
Nash's on the first page of the ' Golden Treasury ' — 

Spring, the sweet Spring, is the year's pleasant king ; 
llien blooms each thing ; then maids dance in a ring ; 
Cold doth not sting ; the pretty birds do sing — 
Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-wee, to-witta-woo ! 

And you mustn't forget they all lived in the country in 
a sense ; even the town people had the Spring at their 
very doors." 

My friend's desire to ramble to Cobham through the 
woods was undoubtedly Pickwickian in its origin ; but 
the young com, and the poetical associations which it 
had called up, had for the time being, banished all 
thought of Dickens from his mind. 

" And out once more in varnished glory shine 
The stars of celandine," — 

he repeated, as he paused before a hedgerow and peered 
down into the bank. " How they do light the place up ! 
Do you remember poor old Wordsworth's woolly mor- 
alizings over them? What are those green things 
with leaves something like hartstongues ? " 

" Lords and ladies — it's the wild arum, I think ; 
there's a wonderful show of them in these parts." 

" I never heard of them; and yet, I can't believe 
there is a common spring flower that isn't mentioned 
somewhere by the old English lyrists. I must make a 
note of lords and ladies." 

" Country people call them stink-pots." 

" Possibly that's why the old poets forbore to mention 
them," suggested Mr. Fairfield, pausing in the middle 
of a note. He grinned as he paid this tribute to the 
fastidious delicacy of those ancient minstrels. 



COBHAM WOODS 355 

When we reached the woods, the spring ferment in 
my friend's mind bubbled up to a pitch that was quite 
Elizabethan. He seemed to forget my presence, as he 
slouched along the path in front of me, with bent head 
and rounded shoulders, and regaled himself with scraps 
of spring poetry. One fragment that reached me was 
an exhortation to Corinna, a " sweet slug-a-bed," to get 
up, and go with him a-maying. 

There was an almost laughable incongruity between 
this snatch of Herrick, and the grey, elderly figure of 
the pilgrim from Chicago ; but he followed it up by a 
still bolder flight. He burst forth into muffled song — 

" Hark, hark ! the lark at heaven's gate sings, 

And Phoebus 'gins arise. 
His steeds to water at those springs 

On chaliced flowers that lies ; 
And winking Mary-buds begin 

To ope their golden eyes : 
With every thing that pretty bin ; 

My lady sweet, arise, 

ArisOj 
My lady sweety arise ! " 

" ' The red blood reigns in winter's pale,' " he said 
laughing, when we stopped to listen to the " cheep- 
cheep-cheep " of an infuriated robin, and he saw that I 
was amused. "It's the springtime that's to blame. 
It's proud-pied April's fault, that heavy Saturn laughs 
and leaps with him." 

There were primroses in the woods, and in stoopmg 
to pluck one, Mr. Fairfield came upon a violet. He 
stood holding it between thumb and finger, and gazing 
upon it like a man in a dream ; but unless I was much 
mistaken, his eyes were too misty to see anything very 
clearly. He told me afterwards, that never before had 
he chanced upon an English wood-violet, or been in 
England in early springtime. 

It was not until we had left the woods and were 
passing Cobham Hall, that Mr. Fairfield made any 
reference to Dickens. 



356 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

" "We've come the way Mr. Pickwick and Snodgrass 
and Winkle took, when they traced Tupman to the 
Leather Bottle," he said, " and it's the way Dickens 
says he took after feasting the Six Poor Travellers, 
There's the Hall. "What a capital view you get of two 
sides of it at this time of year ! " 

In passing, I may here say that during our stay in 
Bochester, we knocked at the door of Bichard Watts' 
hospital in the High Street, and spent a pleasant half- 
hour there, under the guidance of the matron. We 
saw the modern room in which the Six Poor Travellers 
have their suppers and entertain themselves till bed- 
time, and we rejoiced to find that there was a good 
stock of well-thumbed magazines, to temper the 
austerity of the pious volumes provided for their mental 
refreshment. We saw, too, the ancient gallery and 
the six sleeping rooms with their big chimneys ; and 
we turned over the visitors' book, in which under date 
of the eleventh of May, 1854, appear the autographs of 
Charles Dickens and Mark Lemon. 

It was interesting to learn that it was not very un- 
usual for the matron to be told by a stranger, after she 
had shown him over the place as a visitor, that in lean 
years gone by, he had been thankful to spend a night 
there as a Poor Traveller. Nowadays, the six are 
chosen near the bridge, but at the time when the 
" Seven Poor Travellers " was written, they were chosen 
in the street outside the hospital. The story runs, that 
Dickens gained admission by giving one of the chosen 
ones half-a-crown in exchange for his ticket. 

After having seen the place it was doubly pleasant 
to read what Dickens wrote about the hearth, which 
the charity of Richard Watts has kept warm for over 
three hundred years; and it was pleasant to think that 
Dickens had been the means of restoring that charity 
to its proper channel. Pleasant too, to know, that de- 
spite the efforts of certain pundits at Whitehall, the 
desire of the founder that six poor travellers should every 



THE LEATHER BOTTLE 357 

night enjoy his bounty in the ancient city of his adop- 
tion, had not been disregarded, and that his injunction 
to the persons in charge, to keep the place sweet and 
" courteously entreat the said poor travellers," seemed 
quite safe in the hands of the present custodian. 

At the Leather Bottle at Cobham, the landlord was 
courteous enough to serve our modest repast of biscuits 
and cheese in what is called the "Pickwick" room, 
and which purports to be the " long row-roofed room " 
where Mr. Pickwick and his two companions discovered 
Mr. Tupman consoling himself with roast fowl and 
bacon. It is now a well-equipped museum of portraits 
and relics. Before seeking the inn, we had saun- 
tered through the college and had peeped into the 
hall ; and we had wondered whether Dickens had the 
place in mind when he wrote " The Haunted Man," 
and whether Stanfield had a faint recollection of it, 
when he drew his picture of the great Dinner Hall that 
forms the tailpiece of the original edition. 

There were two soldiers cruising round the Pickwick 
room when we began our lunch. There was no 
mistaking the interest which they took in the pictures 
and relics ; and many were the whispered discussions 
that they held before one and another of them. 

" Intelligent fellows, those sergeants ! " remarked Mr. 
Fairfield, as soon as they departed. " They're a fine 
body of men, your non-commissioned officers ; I never 
lose an opportunity of having a chat with them. If I'd 
had half a chance of breaking the ice with those two, 
I'd have found out what they knew about Dickens." 

" They ought to like him; he was particularly happy 
in his soldiers." 

" He was splendid — better than any one who went 
before him. Just think of George in ' Bleak House ' 
and his friend the gunner, and that magnificent Old 
Girl ! And there's Dick Doubledick and his captain, 
and there's that French corporal in ' Somebody's Lug- 
gage '." 



358 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

" Do you remember the sergeant in * Great Expecta- 
tions ' ? " 

"I'm not sure lie isn't the pick of the basket. Man 
ahve ! is there anything better in all Dickens than that 
page or two, where that sergeant asks Joe to mend the 
handcuffs, and he drinks toasts with Uncle Pumble- 
chook?" 

My friend was all aglow by this time. " Mr. Swin- 
burne thinks the waterside ' Jack,' near the end of the 
book, one of Dickens' finest bits. So he is ; but the 
* Jack ' isn't a patch upon the sergeant." 

"I've just been thinking," he said, coming out of a 
reverie, a little later — " I've just been thinking, there 
are several notable sergeants in literature. I feel an 
interest in them, for I've worn the chevrons myself." 

" There's the bleeding sergeant in * Macbeth '." 

My friend laughed. " I'd forgotten him. He's a 
terrible person — a sort of bleeding chorus. He isn't 
Shakespeare's at all, really. I began my list with Far- 
quhar ; Sergeant Kite in the ' Recruiting Officer ' was 
the earliest I thought of. He was one of the famous 
parts of old comedy. There's a deal of humour in Far- 
quhar ; he's a little like Goldsmith in some of his touches. 
It's a pity he's such a beast." 

" There's Sergeant Bothwell in * Old Mortality '." 

" I thought of him ; but he doesn't come next. My 
second sergeant came out of Fielding. He was Amelia's 
foster-brother, Sergeant Atkinson. He got a commission, 
and so did Sergeant Doubledick." 

" Isn't there a sergeant in ' Vanity Fair ' ? I seem 
to remember something about one, in the scene in 
Hyde Park, where little George is introduced to little 
Eawdon." 

" He wasn't a sergeant," said my friend, after a 
moment's reflection ; " he was Corporal Clink of the 
Guards — I'm not sure that the British Guards have 
sergeants. He introduced little George to Eawdon 
Crawley. Little Eawdon was there on the pony Lord 



THE LEATHER BOTTLE 359 

Southdown gave him, and the other boy was put up 
behind. What a pretty scene it is ! How capital all 
Thackeray's boys are." 

" Do you remember little Miles, and how he took his 
gold moidore to George and Theo, because he'd heard 
they were so poor? " 

"I do, indeed ; that was in Church Street, Lambeth. 
He had a pony too. A little patter of horses' hoofs 
came galloping up to the gate — " 

Mr. Fairfield broke off ; and for a minute or two he 
sat drawing at his cigar very slowly, and with an absent 
look on his face. When he spoke again, I knew that 
his thoughts had been " out yonder ". 

" It's a heart-breaking little chapter. There's some- 
thing about the child running upstairs to see Theo and 
the baby, in the little tramping boots of which he was 
so proud. It's some years since I read it ; the truth is, 
I don't like reading about little boys who die." Grand- 
father Fairfield made this confession with a simplicity 
that went to my heart. 

There's another corporal in Thackeray — that horrible 
old Brock in ' Catherine,' " he resumed, " and we're 
forgetting the biggest fish in the basket — Corporal Trim." 

"Do soldiers care for Dickens?" I asked later in 
the afternoon, when we were making our way towards 
Shome, past coppices where, a day or two before, the 
saplings had stood out in individual nakedness, and 
where now there was an universal, misty shimmer of 
pale green, which told that spring had come at last. 

"I think so. Those two sergeants at the Leather 
Bottle reminded me of something that happened to 
me in Westminster Abbey. I was mooning about 
Poets' Corner one Saturday afternoon, and I noticed a 
big trooper of your Life Guards standing still and star- 
ing about him, in an awkward sort of way. He was 
just the sort of soldier that so irritated Daudet, when 
he was in England — a gigantic fellow, in a tight blue 
jacket which pinched him at the waist. I didn't see 



360 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

any wonderful arrogance in his face though, but then I 
don't belong to a Latin race. As a matter of fact, he 
had a very ordinary, simple countenance. I could see 
he was looking for something. His eye passed over the 
busts and statues — Shakespeare — Thackeray — Dryden 
— Scott — Tennyson — Longfellow, and a score of others 
— without interest or any sort of recognition. Then he 
caught sight of me, and he came clanking across the 
pavement — ' Where is Charles Dickens^ grave ? ' I've 
often thought of that big soldier." 

We found Shorne, and sauntered for a while about 
the churchyard that Dickens loved to sit in on hot 
summer afternoons ; and thanks to the map, we made 
our way by field-paths to Gadshill. We came out in 
the Dover road, a little to the west of the house. 

" He came by here, when he drove home from 
Gravesend station on his return from America," re- 
marked my friend, meditatively. " That was early in 
May, 1868. He drove in a basket phaeton — I wonder 
if the ponies with the silver bells were in it — and two 
newfoundlands followed. They lifted up their heads 
to have their ears pulled by their master. The farmers 
turned out in their market-chaises to welcome him, and 
all the houses along the road were flagged." 

" He was frightfully knocked up, wasn't he? " 

" He was when he left New York, but the voyage 
had done wonders, and after he'd been resting here for 
a little time, he seemed to get quite himself. He never 
really was the same after that awful tour, but the mis- 
chief didn't show much that summer. It seems to 
have been one of the gayest times they ever had at 
Gadshill. Longfellow was one of the visitors. In his 
honour, Dickens turned out two post carriages with pos- 
tilions in the red jackets of the ' old red, royal Dover 
road,' and there was a picnic on Bluebell Hill — that's 
about halfway between Rochester and Maidstone." 

" I was reading in one of your books about an ex- 
cursion to Canterbury with the red postilions." 



EASTGATE HOUSE 361 

" That was in June, 1869. They drove there, 
picnicking on the way. That was Dickens' last visit 
to Canterbury — Dolby says they went through Faver- 
sham, but I think that's a mistake." 

" Why ? " 

" It would be out of the way. The road from here 
to Canterbury is a straight line, and as old as the hills. 
At one time the mail coaches passed through Faver- 
sham by taking two sides of a triangle, and, perhaps, 
Dickens did the same. I like to follow your old coach- 
ing roads. I never move about the country without a 
small ' Paterson ' — second edition, 1772 — that I picked 
up years ago. I know the old way from London to 
Canterbury almost by heart — Greenwich, Shooter's 
Hill, — do you remember Jerry Cruncher overtaking Mr. 
Lorry's coach there ? — Welling, Dartford — that was the 
first change — Northfleet, Chalk Turnpike, Gadshill, 
Strood, Eochester, Chatham, Rainham, Sittingbourne. 
There are three or four little places between that and 
Canterbury, but I've forgotten their names." 

We made a long halt when we reached Gadshill 
Place ; and after some inward conflict, Mr. Fairfield 
rooted up from the wall a few strands of stonecrop, and 
bore them away in his cigar-case, carefully embedded in 
Kentish earth. 

We did not forget to devote a long morning to East- 
gate House. The moment that Mr. Fairfield crossed 
the threshold his enthusiasm rose to boiling point. He 
could not forbear saying a word of admiration to the 
grey -haired military-looking official, who took our walk- 
ing sticks, and that functionary proved to be as en- 
thusiastic as himself. It was pleasant to hear the 
custodian enlarging upon the beauties of his charge, and 
sounding the praises of the Corporation for having ac- 
quired and restored it ; and it was comical to hear Mr. 
Fairfield chiming in with a like fervour and conviction. 
The two got so friendly that when, at last, we moved on, 



362 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

I believe the custodian would have gladly forfeited a 
v^eek's wages to be free to act as cicerone to that ap- 
preciative visitor. 

The present writer's recollection of the time which 
he and his companion spent in that old mansion, is 
not very clear as to details ; but when, in his mind's 
eye, he sees those Elizabethan rooms, with their small, 
square panelling, quaint windows and noble fireplaces, 
and he recalls the thoroughness and loving care that 
mark every feature of the restoration, he too feels his 
heart warm towards the Mayor, Aldermen and Burgesses 
of the City of Rochester, and he ventures to breathe a 
hope that their example may prompt other corpora- 
tions to go and do likewise. 

" There's only one thing in this place that I can find 
any fault with," said Mr. Fairfield, when, having gone 
through all the rooms, and made a tolerably faithful in- 
spection of the articles that are exhibited in some of 
them, we had returned to the great white chamber on 
the first floor; " and that is the bust of Dickens below. 
I don't presume to criticize it as a work of art, but 
nothing will persuade me that he had a gilt moustache." 

" It struck me as a little out of the common." 

" A gilt moustache is an improbable thing in itself; 
and it's impossible to believe that if Charles Dickens 
had sported such a rarity, his contemporaries wouldn't 
have noticed it. We should have some record of the fact, 
sir." 

" What a room this is," he said, his eyes still twink- 
ling with the enjoyment of his own facetiousness ; " and 
it's more than three hundred years old. Fifteen-ninety- 
one is the date cut upon that beam across the ceiling. 
Just think of more than ten generations of men and 
women having passed through it ! Why, when this 
house was built, there were lots of people living who 
had seen Henry the Eighth. Just think of the changes 
in dress, and in habits and in folks' ways of looking at 
things, in three hundred years ! It comes home to one 
so in an old family house like this " 



EASTGATE HOUSE 363 

" But I thought the place was a school ? " I interposed. 

" Surely, you don't suppose that a house like this was 
built for a school ! " was my friend's almost irritable re- 
tort. " I daresay its career as a school goes a long way 
back," he went on. " Put it as far back as Queen 
Anne's time, if you like, and that leaves more than a 
century unaccounted for." 

" It's a noble fireplace," said I, conscious that my in- 
terruption had been inconsiderate. 

" It's glorious. Can't you fancy some old cavalier 
warming his toes before those blue tiles? — reading a 
folio Shakespeare perhaps ; some old chap rusting out 
the fag end of his life under the Commonwealth. I 
hope he didn't sit here dipping his poor old nose into a 
tankard, and bemoaning the days gone by." 

My friend spoke as if he saw his old cavalier in the 
flesh, and was doubtful only as to the exact nature of 
his employment, as he sat before that generous hearth. 

" Were you thinking of Sir Henry Lee? " I asked. 

" Oh, no ! As things went in those days, he was 
reasonably well off ; he had a daughter, and he had his 
own roof to cover him. My old cavalier was Sir Ashby 
Freestonhay : — 

I gave the King my house, my land ; I gave my golden store ; 
I gave him all my five tall sons — I could not give him more. 

And two were slain at Chalgrove Field, and two on Newark wall ; 
But yet I had my youngest born, the best-beloved of all. 

And oft I murmured in the field, when we were side by side, 
' Accept, O Lord, the ripened ear and let the green abide ! ' 

But I was doomed to bear alone the bitter days that are — 
He fell with flying lovelocks, on the hillside at Dunbar." 

" I hope the old gentleman lived to see the Eestora- 
tion," said I. 

" Better not ! Men of his stamp had a heart-breaking 
time, then and afterwards — 

But worth must wither with kings like Charles, 
And the hands that kinged him were Albermarle's. 



364 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

That's how Mr. Beesly puts it. Marvell had anticipated 
him in that queer rhyme, by the way. If our old cava- 
Her hung on, he may have sat in this room and heard 
De Euyter's guns booming up the Medway. That 
wouldn't make him very happy." 

" Let us have another look out upon the Dover road 
before we go," he suggested, and we moved across to 
the deep bay window, that faces the hearth, and is it- 
self a tiny room. So far does it project that the south 
side commands a good view of the High Street. 

" I never before was in a very old house that stood 
beside one of your great main roads," he said musingly, 
his eyes fixed upon the thoroughfare. " It's not easy 
to grasp the fact that more than ten generations have 
stood at this window and looked out upon that street ; 
and when you think of what there was for them to look 
at, one's brain reels." 

" Shakespeare," I suggested, knowing that the name 
never failed to kindle him. 

" Yes, Shakespeare rode by here — and he had his 
cloak with him. He wouldn't travel forth without it, 
when he had a journey to Dover before him. I hope 
he wasn't obliged to spur his poor beast ; I hate that 
line in the Sonnets about the wretch answering heavily 
with a groan." 

" I daresay he made that sonnet on horseback," he 
went on. " The steady trampling of a horse, who had 
to go all day, would be just the thing to set a poet to 
work. It would be nothing more than a walk ; it's 
wonderful what a lot of ground a horse can cover at 
that pace. I'm thinking of Sir Philip Sidney : he used 
to hammer out his verses on horseback. He says so — 

Highway ! since you my chief Parnassus be, 
And that my Muse, to some ears not unsweet, 
Tempers her words to trampling horses' feet, 
More oft than to a chamber melody. 

He can't have passed this house, though ; I'm pretty 
sure he died before 1591." 



EASTGATE HOUSE 365 

" Have you noticed that letter from Wellington in the 
Bull coffee-room, written in November, 1842, ordering 
posthorses to be ready for him? " I asked. " He must 
have passed here." 

"No doubt ; and Marlborough too, and Prince Eupert. 
Wellington must have passed many a time — he was War- 
den of the Cinque Ports, and I'm pretty sure the way 
to Walmer lay through Canterbury. And think, too, 
how often Pitt must have passed, when he was Lord 
Warden — perhaps in regimentals sometimes. He must 
have been a queer figure, when ' out he rode a-colonel- 
ling '. And, by the way, Wellington drove by this house 
when he came home from the Peninsular campaign. 
I forget where I read about it ; but I'm sure he landed 
at Dover very early one morning. No one knew when 
he would arrive, but the guns saluted his ship ; and 
the whole town turned out on the beach to welcome 
him. He took a post-chaise to London, and he out- 
raced everything else on the road, and he wasn't re- 
cognized till he got to Westminster. That was in June, 
1814. It's interesting to think of his galloping past 
this window, and not a soul in Rochester knowing 
who he was. How familiar the sound of the post- 
horn must have been in this house when the place was 
young ! There was some regulation, which made the 
postboys wind it pretty often ; and then, think of the 
coaches ! I've read in one of the guide-books that 
ninety coaches passed over Gadshill every day." 

" We shall stand here till midnight, if I begin talk- 
ing about the Dover road," he said laughing, as he 
straightened himself, preparatory to making a move ; 
"I'm not equal to coping with the ghosts of more than 
three centuries. Till the railways came, everybody 
went by this house. We'll leave it at that." 

" Perhaps they heard a posthorn here so late as June, 
1869," I observed, meaningly. 

Mr. James C. Fairfield is " very gleg at the uptake ". 
"I forgot that," he said instantly, and he stepped back 



566 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

to have one more look into the High Street. " The 
posthorns aren't mentioned ; but posthorns or no post- 
lioms, the red postilions went by here." 

POSTSCEIPT 
THE OLD ENGLISH LYRISTS 

(Written in an Anthology) 

A tear for the daffadowndillies 
That die in the sweet o' the year ; 
A smile for the shy Amaryllis 
Who flees from her lover in fear ; 
A mocking arraignment of Phyllis — 
Mirth, melody, pathos are here. 

A garland of roses and myrtle 
A wreath for the Goddess of Love : 
A hymn to her swan and her turtle. 
Or, when we alight from above, 
A rapture to Julia's kirtle. 
An ode upon Annabel's glove. 

A cadence that falls and recovers. 
To ravish the ear as it flows ; 
A music that pauses and hovers. 
Most exquisite- sweet to the close — 
O Lovelace oiu" lover of lovers ! 
O passionate strain of Montrose ! 

A music to calm or to fever — 
The strings are a-quiver with ire ; 
And, lo ! at the will of the weaver, 
A harmony breathes from the lyre 
More soft than " the wool of the beaver," 
More sweet than ' ' the bud of the brier ". 

No less than a score are our featest, 
So deftly they rise and they fall. 
But, tried by the test that is meetest 
— The music we love to recall — 
There is one who is ever the sweetest : 
Sweet Will is the sweetest of all. 

And here is a hoard of their treasure, 
A garner o'erflowing with grain. 
The fruit of their toil and their leisure. 
The sum of their joy and their pain ; 
And I sing to each merry old measure. 
And run through the gamut again. 



CHAPTEE XXIX 

WE INSPECT THE BUFF-JERKINS AND MATCH- 
LOCKS IN ROCHESTER CATHEDRAL 

" I woNDEEyou take so little interest in the cathedral." 

" I almost wonder at it myself," was Mr. Fairfield's 
half-serious answer. 

We were pottering about the Close on the morning 
of our last day, when I made my remark. He seemed 
never to weary of the old houses, and the old walled 
gardens, with here and there a gigantic lilac showing 
above the crumbling stonework, and it struck me as 
odd that he should treat the cathedral with indifference. 
We had once or twice peeped in through the great 
west doorway; but though on one occasion, when he 
was busy at the Bull, reading and making notes, I had 
spent an hour or so within the walls, he, to the best of 
my belief, had never crossed the threshold. 

" I take no interest in architecture as architecture," 
he explained ; " and I don't think I care much for 
buildings of any kind, apart from their associations 
with one's fellow-creatures." 

" And why not take an interest in cathedral people? " 

" They don't seem to me like fellow-creatures. I'm 
not speaking of the moderns ; I mean the medisevals. 
I simply can't form any conception of what the big 
men were like ; and as for the small fry, they seem to 
me to have been no better than so many mites, living 
and dying in an old cheese." 

" That's a very narrow view," I protested, laughing. 

" I'm almost ashamed of it myself, for I don't think 
367 



368 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

I could justify it, if I were put to the question. But 
right or wrong, that's how I feel ; and I can no more 
take an interest in a cathedral because of its associations, 
than I can take an interest in a beehive." 

" Do you remember what Dalgetty thought of a cer- 
tain highlander's spiritual condition," I asked, solemnly. 
I knew that the passage was one of his favourites. 

" Perhaps you think the same of me," he suggested, 
with a twinkling eye. " Well, I hope, you're better 
qualified to form an opinion than he was." 

" ' I believe my friend Banald will be found in his 
heart to be little better than a heathen,' " he quoted, 
admiringly. " What an exquisite touch of character, 
that is ! But you're wrong in thinking that there's 
anything heathenish in my view. I daresay it's the 
fault of my early environment ; but the truth is, I can't 
associate these great places with anything but pageantry, 
and that sort of thing doesn't appeal to me at all. Ec- 
clesiastical pageantry stinks in my Puritan nostrils." 

"I rather want to see the choir again, now I've re- 
read ' Edwin Drood '." 

" I've seen it three or four times ; and I've seen the 
crypt and been up the tower," he answered, grinning; 
" and as a matter of fact, I've been over the whole 
place. This isn't my first visit to Rochester. I don't 
pretend to be an ecclesiologist, but I'm not quite a 
savage. By-the-by, when I was last here, one of the 
vergers told me that the original of Durdles was a 
drunken old German mason, who lived at a public-house 
in the High Street." 

" I suppose you won't mind seeing the choir 
again ? " 

" Not in the least, if you won't mind my dropping a 
hint to the guide, that we don't want the various orders 
of architecture enlarged upon. That sort of thing bores 
me beyond endurance." 

I waited with some interest to hear that hint dropped, 
but I waited in vain. From the moment we sur- 



L 



ROCHESTER CATHEDRAL 369 

rendered ourselves into the verger's custody, the de- 
scendant of the Pilgrim Fathers hung spellbound upon 
his lips ; and for nearly two hours he dealt with us as 
he would. There is something in my friend's enthu- 
siasm that never fails to strike an answering fire from 
out any cicerone who is proud of his charge ; and truth- 
fully I can aver that, of all the guides we met with in 
our rambles, not one was more responsive than our 
verger at Eochester. 

" I had a sort of notion we might come here this 
morning," remarked Mr. Fairfield as he fished out his 
pocket-book, and began to cut and shuffle the memo- 
randa it contained. By this time, we had passed 
through the choir and had paused to admire the vista 
westward. " Where does the precentor sit ? " 

Our guide pointed out one of the two desks on the 
north side of the choir, which stood out beyond the 
others. 

" Ah ! So that's where Jasper stood that brilliant 
morning, and chanted and sang and became musically 
fervid. And Deputy peeped in from the nave yonder, 
and Datchery sat in one of those stalls. But where on 
earth is there a pillar to hide the Princess Puffer? " 

The forlorn air with which Mr. Fairfield put this 
question was too much for the verger's gravity. Smil- 
ing very broadly, he intimated that he could offer no 
opinion, as he never read " Edwin Drood ". 

If my friend had been the Dean of Eochester, and 
our guide had just admitted with a laugh that he had 
never read the Church Catechism, Mr. Fairfield could 
not have regarded him with a more compassionate re- 
proachfulness. 

" You must give me your name and address," he said, 
as he brought out a pencil. The child of darkness 
laughed again, as he furnished the desired particulars, 

"It was that pillar," asserted the enthusiast with 
great decision, as soon as he had recovered from the 
shock. " That puts her on the left-front of the pre- 
24 



370 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

center's desk ; and she must have crouched down and 
kept out of his sight, somehow." 

The verger and I looked from the desk to the pillar, 
and our eyes met. Then the verger stroked his chin 
and covered his mouth with his hand. 

" We had better leave it at ' somehow,' " said I. 

Some muskets and buff-coats, which were shown to us 
in a little boxed-off place, near the entrance to the crypt, 
and which were said to have been left behind by 
Oliver's soldiers, and not discovered until many years 
afterwards, awoke in Mr. Fairfield an interest that sur- 
prised me. It was unusual for him to be much im- 
pressed by personal rehcs of no particular history ; but 
as soon as these articles had been pointed out he be- 
came wholly engrossed in them. He examined them 
with close attention, and it was impossible to get him 
away until he added a note or two to his memoranda. 

" This is quite a discovery," was his triumphant 
whisper. " Dickens knew of these things. He had 
them in mind when he made Jingle speak of matchlocks 
and buff- jerkins in connexion with the cathedral. I 
don't remember exactly what he says, but it's something 
about little Saxon doors — confessional boxes — buff-jerkins 
— matchlocks and so forth. I don't believe the reference 
has ever been explained. One thing at least is certain 
— Mr. Hammond Hall doesn't explain it; and that 
goes a long way — " 

My friend pulled up abruptly ; for the verger, who had 
left us for a moment to speak to ai colleague, had now 
come back within earshot. The great discovery must 
not be allowed to leak abroad, prematurely. 

" And these carvings are the sort of thing some people 
call very interesting," was Mr. Fairfield's envenomed 
comment as he stared at the chapter-house doorway. 

" Why shouldn't it be interesting to people if they 
think it symbolizes the triumph of the Gospel over the 
Law?" 

" 1 shouldn't mind, if I thought it had an intelligent 



ROCHESTER CATHEDRAL 371 

meaning of any sort, but as likely as not, it's the mere 
frenzy of some addle-brained old symbolist of the 
middle ages." 

" It must have had some meaning to him." 

" Oh, yes, I daresay he knew whether that left-hand 
figure ought to be a woman, as it now is, or a bishop, as 
it was till they changed the head. Nowadays, we're 
told it's a woman ; fifty years hence, some learned 
ecclesiologist will be saying it ought to be an ele- 
phant." 

" I so detest that symbolical work ; I can't discuss it 
with common patience," he explained tome afterwards. 
" You never get any forrader, if you try to puzzle it out. 
And I'll tell you why — the people who take to that sort 
of thing always get so muddle-headed, no one can ex- 
plain their mysteries but themselves." 

" So many men, so many readings!" he continued, 
and he began to emphasize his words with a waving 
forefinger, as was his custom when picking his phrases. 
" And it's just the same with music. You play a piece 
descriptive of something, and then ask your audience 
what has been described. ' The Battle of Waterloo,' 
says Tom. * A caravan crossing the Great Sahara,' 
says Dick. ' Nonsense,' says Harry ; ' the thing's as 
plain as a pikestaff — it's the meditation of a lighthouse- 
keeper' ! " 

" Well, fortunately, it doesn't matter two straws." 

Caring nothing for music or archaeology, my friend 
was quite ready to subscribe to this proposition, but 
before he had committed himself, it struck him that 
the principle involved might be extended to certain pet 
hobbies of his own. 

" No, no ; we ought always to get at the truth," said 
he. He uttered this sentiment with virtuous gravity, 
and at the same time he closed his left eye. 

Before I leave the subject of the cathedral, I feel 
bound to put on record that one of the remarks made 
by me during our perambulation was a little unlucky. 



372 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

" That's the deanery," said our guide, when we were 
standing at a small doorway, situate somewhere at the 
east end of the building. 

" And that, I suppose, is the deanery garden," I re- 
marked, in all innocence. 

I confess that the enclosure to which I was pointing 
was of limited extent ; and speaking from recollection, 
it contained nothing more distinctly horticultural than 
grass and bushes; but beyond all question it was a 
garden of some sort, and through it ran a pathway, that 
undoubtedly went up to the house. Why, under these 
circumstances, my observation should lead Mr. Fairfield 
and the verger to exchange glances of pity and con- 
tempt was incomprehensible. After a pause, my friend 
was kind enough to enlighten me. 

" The Dean of Bochester is Dean Hole," he said 
frostily. 

"■ The finest rose garden in England," murmured the 
verger, by way of clinching the rebuke. 

" You want to pack up, I suppose," I observed, as 
we turned out of the west door. I had noticed that my 
friend had consulted his watch more than once during 
the last half-hour. 

" No ; the truth is, I want to have a look at the ball- 
room, before they take away last night's trimmings. I 
forgot all about it till we were inside the cathedral." 

For some days past, his devotion to the ballroom had 
not been forced upon my notice. I had one morn- 
ing made with him what may be called the grand 
tour of the hotel, which had of course included that 
magical chamber; and we had then inspected amon^ 
other things, the so-called " Pickwick " rooms, the bed- 
stead in which Queen Victoria slept a few months be- 
fore her accession to the throne, and the room numbered 
seventeen, which Dickens is said to have slept in more 
than once, and which contains the cheval glass that 
used to stand in his bedroom at Gadshill Place. 

For all I knew to the contrary, Mr, Fairfield might 



A DANCE AT THE BULL 37a 

have paid the ballroom many furtive visits during our 
sojourn, but, after the first day, it had ceased to figure 
in his conversation. On our last evening, however, it 
had come to the front once more. We were mounting 
the main staircase and had almost reached the corridor, 
when we heard dance music proceeding from some room 
near at hand. My companion stopped dead for a 
moment, to make sure whence the sound came ; and 
then with a whistle of astonishment, he dashed up the 
few remaining stairs and made towards the ballroom 
door. 

"What's going on, Charles? "he demanded of an 
under-waiter, who was loitering about the passage. 

" Large private party from London, sir ; been spend- 
ing the day here. Finishin' off with a dance before 
they go back." 

" Well, this is luck ! " he said, as soon as the youth 
had faded away. " I never thought of that old room 
being used for dancing nowadays — and to think of our 
being here just at the right time ! " 

It was a merry party in the room that night. The 
music was so brisk that it set our feet a-tapping as we 
stood and listened, and above the music and the move- 
ment of the dance, there rose now and again a sound 
of happy laughter. 

Mr. Fairfield was in high feather. " Bless the boys 
and girls ! " he exclaimed; " I'm glad they're having a 
good time in the old room." 

" You'd like to join them? " 

I threw this out in mere playfulness, and he met it 
with a laugh ; but on second thoughts he seemed to find 
it worth considering. He stood pondering over it, chin 
in hand. 

" No," he said, " I shouldn't care to join them, even 
if they wanted me. I say ' if,' you observe. And be- 
sides, it wouldn't be seemly for me to be cutting capers 
to a barn-dance thing like that. If I dance, it must be 
to 'the very genteelest of tunes — "Water parted" or 



374 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

the minuet in Ariadne '." His gravity had all vanished, 
and he brought out the quotation with his usual keen 
relish. " ' Water parted ' was a song of Dr. Arne's, 
It was a favourite of Charles Lamb's ; he used to hear 
it in the Temple when he was a child. And he heard 
it sung in his First Play." 

The dance had come to an end by this time. " We've 
no business to be eavesdropping here," he said ; and he 
turned away to make good his words. But at that 
moment the piano struck up the prelude to " The Miller 
and the Maid," and he wheeled round to listen. When 
the last verse was reached, he followed the girl's voice 
with a low murmur of his own, just audible to me, who 
stood beside him : — 

" And it's now you know it all," he said, 

"' So bless you dear, and go." — 
'* Oh ! miller, miller, wait a bit, 

I need not hurry so, 
If you've something more to tell me, 

You can tell me as we go." 
And he'd nothing left to tell her, 

Yet he told it her, I know. 

For one never tires of telling, 

" Oh sweetheart, I love you so ! " 

" Now the boys are finding their partners," he 
said, when through the door we heard a sound of talk 
and movement. " It makes one think of old days. 
Well, well, we can't put the clock back five-and-thirty 
years ; and I don't know that one would, if one could. 
We won't be envious of the boys — perhaps it's as well, 
though, we can't see them ; it might make us lachry- 
mose. 

For they are lusty and gay and trimmed. 
And we are rusty and heavy-limbed. 
And 'tis with eyes with a tear bedimmed, 
We watch the boys go wooing. ' ' 

And warbling the last line in high good-humour with 
himself, he took my arm and we passed into the corridor. 



THE ROCHESTER COACH 375 

" We hail the vine, that once the myrtle knew," 
he exclaimed with bacchanalian fervour, as he caught 
sight of the under-waiter. " At our time of life a tankard 
is the thing to warm the heart — 

And that I think' s a reason fair, to fill my glass again. 

I go with Captain Morris in these matters. Charles ! — 
my friend and I are quite ready for our soda-water." 

ENVOY 
THE ROCHESTER COACH 

(1830) 

"Well on our way, in the fresh of the mom. 
Over Blackheath, and in sight of the com : 
Peter the guard gives a rouse on his horn — 

Peter is stalwart and merry ! 
Breasting the Hill, with a pause at the top ; 
Dashing to Welling with never a stop. 
Stretching away for the land of the hop. 

White with the bloom of the cherry. 

Sunbeams at play upon collar and bar — 

Yo-ho ! 
Horses at work like the Trojans they are — 

Yo-ho ! Yo-ho-o ! 
Red-coated George with the team on his mind. 
Red-coated Peter a-chatter behind. 
Rounding his talk with a musical wind — 

Yo-ho-hi-ho-ho-o ! Tan-tiv-y ! 

Changing at Dartford : and time for a snap ! 
Trim little damsel in pinner and cap ; 
Peter is ready to vouch for the tap — 

Calls for a measure and drains it. 
Chestnut and roans and a flea-bitten grey, 
All in a fidget to gallop away. 
Tossing and stamping — " As good as a play ! " 

Peter asserts and maintains it. 

OflF to the horn in a spatter of rain — 

Yo-ho ! 
Bowling along in the sunshine, again — 

Yo-ho ! Yo-ho-o ! 
" Now it'll last for the rest o' the day ! 
Pride o' the mornin', and welcome, I say : 
Hasn't it brought out the smell o' the may ? " — 

Yo-ho-hi-ho-ho-o ! Tan-tiv-y ! 



376 RAMBLES WITH AN AMERICAN 

Gravesend behind us ; the marshes are bare — 
'' Snug little cargoes they run over there ; 
Farmers in league with 'em ; aU playing fair " ; 

This is how Peter discourses. 
Passing the toll-house, and passing the mill ; 
Passing the cedars on top of Gadshill ; 
Peter is playing his horn with a wiU ; 

George is intent on his horses. 

" Steady my beauties ! " he's holding 'em fast — 

Yo-ho ! 
Nursing 'em up for the gallop at last — 

Yo-ho ! Yo-ho-o ! 
Done with the gallop, and back to the pull ; 
Crossing the bridge, where the river is full ; 
Landing us safe in the yard of the Bull — 

Yo-ho-hi-ho-hi-ho-ho-ho-o ! Tan-tiv-y ! 



ABERDEEN : THE UNIVBBSITT PRESS 



IAN ]9 19tl 



